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The gene test requisition sits on her bunk like a live grenade.
Keira stares at it. Standard Coalition medical form. Instructor signature at the bottom—Vex's, sharp and vertical like the man himself. Blood draw and full genetic workup, scheduled for 0600 tomorrow.
She's got maybe fourteen hours to figure out how to fake a gene panel or disappear.
Neither one's going to happen.
Her fingers curl against her thigh. The old scar tissue pulls tight under the synthetic skin graft. Five years of staying dead, and it's going to end because some Valkan instructor got curious after a sparring match.
She should've thrown the fight.
Footsteps in the corridor. Keira folds the requisition into her pocket and stands. Her bunkmate—Rian—glances over from where he's cleaning his rifle.
"You look like shit," he says.
"Thanks."
"Vex really got under your skin, huh?"
She doesn't answer. Rian's still an unknown variable. Another human prisoner, sure, but that doesn't mean ally. Just means they're both expendable.
"Training's in twenty," Rian adds. "Live blade work. Try not to bleed out."
Keira grabs her jacket and heads for the door.
—
The training deck smells like sweat and disinfectant. Regulation mats cover the floor, and the overhead lights are too bright, the kind that make everything look washed out and clinical.
Vex is already there.
He's talking to one of the Valkan senior cadets, his back to the door, but Keira can feel the weight of his attention anyway. Like he's cataloging her before he even turns around.
She takes her place in the line. Keeps her breathing steady. Muscle memory wants to slide into a ready stance—weight forward, hands loose—but she forces herself into the sloppy approximation of a prisoner trainee who's only seen combat in propaganda vids.
Vex turns. His gaze cuts straight to her.
"Morris," he says. "You're up first."
Of course she is.
The other trainees shift. A Valkan named Serrik grins, all teeth. He's been waiting for this. Keira's the only human in the cohort who hasn't washed out or bled out yet, and that makes her a target.
She steps onto the mat.
Vex tosses her a training blade. It's weighted, dulled, but the balance is real. She catches it without thinking, and the way her fingers settle into the grip is automatic.
Damn it.
Vex's eyes narrow. Just a fraction.
"Serrik," he says. "Let's see if she's learned anything."
Serrik steps up, rolling his shoulders. He's bigger than her by half a meter and probably thirty kilos. Valkan genetics—denser bone structure, faster reflexes. He's not going to go easy.
Good. That would've been suspicious.
They circle. Keira keeps her stance loose, her blade low. She's playing the part: decent instincts, no formal training, too stubborn to quit. Serrik lunges, testing her, and she blocks high.
Too high.
His second strike comes low and fast, and she barely twists out of the way. The blade hisses past her ribs. Close enough that she feels the air move.
The trainees are watching. Vex is watching.
Serrik presses. He's aggressive, confident, and he's got no reason to think she's anything more than a human washout who got lucky once. Keira gives ground, lets him think he's winning.
Then he overcommits.
She doesn't think. Her body just moves. She steps inside his guard, hooks his wrist, and the blade's out of his hand before he realizes what's happening. Her own blade comes up under his chin, edge against his throat, and the whole room goes silent.
Three seconds. Start to finish.
Serrik freezes. His eyes are wide, his pulse jumping under the blade.
Keira's brain catches up a half-second later.
Oh, hell.
She jerks the blade back, lets him go, and tries to make it look like a fluke. "Sorry. I—didn't mean—"
Vex's voice cuts through the room like a whip. "Again."
She turns. He's standing at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Sir?"
"You heard me. Again. Same sequence."
Keira's heart kicks hard against her ribs. She can't do it again. Not the same way. That move was muscle memory, reflex trained into her bones back when Ghost Seven still existed.
She meets Vex's eyes. He knows. He's testing her.
"I don't—" she starts.
"Again," Vex says. Flat. Final.
Serrik picks up his blade. His face is red now, humiliation burning hot. He's not going to hold back this time.
They reset. Keira tries to think through it, tries to plan something clumsy, something human. But Serrik's pissed, and he comes in fast and mean. No testing. Just violence.
His blade slashes across her shoulder. The edge catches her jacket, and she feels the fabric tear. Not deep, but enough. She stumbles back, and Serrik follows, brutal and efficient.
She blocks. Once. Twice. Her sleeve flaps open, the tear wider than she thought.
And then she sees Vex's face change.
He's looking at her arm. At the exposed skin just above her wrist.
At the tattoo.
It's small. Partial. Most of it was burned off in the extraction, covered with grafts and scar tissue. But there's enough left. Three letters. S-G-7.
Ghost Seven.
Keira's blood goes cold.
Vex moves. He's across the mat in two strides, his hand closing around her wrist before she can pull away. His grip is iron. He shoves her sleeve higher, and the rest of the ink is visible now—mangled, half-destroyed, but unmistakable.
"Stop," he says. Not to her. To Serrik. To the room.
Everyone stops.
Keira tries to pull her arm back. Vex doesn't let go. His thumb presses against her pulse point, and she can feel how fast her heart's racing. He can feel it too.
His eyes lift to hers. They're not angry. They're cold. Calculating. Like he's looking at a puzzle piece that just fell into place.
"You're bleeding," he says quietly.
She is. The blade caught her when the sleeve tore. Blood's welling up, slow and red, dripping onto the mat between them.
"Let go," she says.
He doesn't.
"Where'd you get that ink, Morris?"
She doesn't answer. Can't. Every word she says right now is a trap.
Vex's grip tightens. Not painful. Just inescapable.
"That's not prisoner ink," he says. "That's not civilian ink. That's military. Operator ink."
The room is so quiet she can hear her own breathing.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says.
Vex's smile is thin and sharp. "Yeah. You do."
Footsteps. Loud. Multiple sets. Coming down the corridor toward the training deck.
Vex's head turns toward the sound, but he doesn't let go of her wrist. The blood's still dripping. Her pulse is hammering against his thumb.
The door opens. Boots hit the deck. Two guards. Maybe three.
Vex looks back at her. His voice drops, low enough that only she can hear.
"Ghost Seven."
The world stops.