Chapter 12

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!"

Syn's yell tore through the silence, a raw bellow of frustration that bounced off the walls of Vera's opulent bedroom and faded into the vast emptiness. The door's hiss still echoed in his ears, the trio's taunting laughter a fresh wound as he flung himself onto the narrow bed, the thin mattress creaking under his weight. He stared at the ceiling, its sleek metallic sheen mocking him with its indifference, and let his hands fall to his sides, clenching the edges of the blanket as if it could anchor him against the storm raging in his mind.

The contract paper—his lifeline, his immunity—was the only thing standing between him and the unpredictable wrath of Vera, Aster, and Pako. It was a flimsy shield, a relic of a promise made in a different life, but it held them at bay. If he destroyed it, tore it to shreds as Vera demanded, who knew what they'd do to him?

Their grins had promised more than just freedom—they'd hinted at a hunger he wasn't sure he could withstand, a tangle of affection and vengeance that could unravel him entirely. He shuddered, the memory of Vera's piercing gaze and Aster's menacing smirk flashing behind his eyes.

But on the other hand, there was the princess—blonde, bruised, defiant—and the crew he'd sworn to protect with his life. His mates, comrades who'd stood by him through plasma storms and Kingdom drills, their faces flickering in his mind like ghosts. A handful of lives, dozens maybe, all dangling on the thread of that ticking detonator. Was that even a comparison? Their blood would stain his hands if he hesitated, a weight he couldn't bear—not after all he'd done to claw his way up in the Kingdom, to prove he was more than a pirate-turned-traitor. He had to save them. Had to. But there had to be a way to do it without losing himself in the process.

He sat up, his breath ragged, and reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the folded edges of two distinct papers. One was the real contract, its creases worn from years of being carried close, a talisman of his past promises. The other—the one Pako had slipped him during lunch—was a forgery, a clever replica she'd pressed into his hand with that sly wink of hers. He pulled it out first, unfolding it with trembling fingers, and marveled at its precision. The texture mimicked the original's parchment-like grain, the ink of his signature looping in perfect imitation, down to the faint smudge where his thumb had brushed it years ago. It was uncanny, almost eerie—Pako's handiwork was a testament to her mischief and her mind.

Then his gaze shifted to the small box Aster had thrust at him earlier, its contents rattling faintly as he nudged it with his foot. He bent down, flipping it open, and pulled out the plasma torch—a compact, silver tool, its grip worn but its emitter gleaming with latent power.

He turned it over in his hands, feeling its weight, imagining the sizzle it could unleash. It could overload the forcefield's energy grid, fry its circuits in a burst of sparks and heat. A brute-force escape, risky but direct—if it worked, he'd be free in minutes.

He weighed his options, the torch in one hand, Pako's fake contract in the other. The plasma torch was tempting, its raw power a siren's call to his impatient instincts. But it was dangerous—unpredictable. The forcefield's hum pulsed steadily around him. If he misjudged the charge, he could short it out too slowly, or worse, trigger an alarm. And if anyone—Vera, Aster, Pako—walked in mid-process, catching him with a glowing torch and a flickering field, it'd be over. Messy, chaotic, a gamble with odds he didn't like.

Pako's plan, though, was elegance itself. Tear the fake contract in front of the cameras—those unblinking eyes embedded in the room's corners—trick the system into thinking he'd surrendered, and watch the forcefield drop as Vera had promised. Then, a straight shot to her private escape pod in the bathroom, a sleek hatch he'd glimpsed behind the crimson curtains. If Vera caught him, he'd flash the real contract, still intact, and call her bluff. It relied on deception, not destruction, and that suited him better. The forgery's perfection was his ace, and Pako's cunning had handed it to him on a platter.

He chewed his lip, glancing at the detonator where it lay on the floor, he had already lost twenty precious minutes. Twelve hours wasn't much, but delaying further was a fool's game. Vera and the others would expect him to stew, to wrestle with his conscience until the last desperate hour, pacing like a caged animal.

That's what they'd banked on—his hesitation, his honor. But if he acted now, right after they'd left, he could catch them off guard. They were captains, each with their own ships to oversee, their own crews to command. Vera might be lurking, but Aster and Pako would be distracted, their attention split across the fleet. Now was his window—small, fleeting, but real.

"Pako, you little genius," he muttered, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the tension coiling in his gut. He tucked the plasma torch back into its box, shoving it under the bed with a scrape of metal on metal. It was a backup, a last resort—he'd go with finesse over force. His decision solidified, a spark of resolve igniting amidst the chaos of his thoughts. He had to hurry.

Syn rose, pacing the confines of his invisible cage one last time, his boots scuffing the floor as he rehearsed the steps in his mind. Tear the paper. Grab the detonator. Hit the bathroom. Come back later for the ones in the prison. Simple, clean—if it worked. He stopped, facing the camera nearest the door, its red light a silent sentinel. "You're watching, aren't you?" he said aloud, his voice low, a challenge to the empty room. No answer came, but the weight of unseen eyes pressed against him, urging him on.

He reached into his pocket again, pulling out the fake contract with deliberate care. It trembled slightly in his grip, not from fear but from the adrenaline surging through his veins. He held it up, letting the camera catch every angle, every crease—a performance for an audience he couldn't see.

"Here's your damn contract, Vera," he growled under his breath, his heart thudding like a war drum. He gulped, the sound loud in the stillness, and gripped the paper with both hands. One sharp tug—that's all it would take. His fingers tightened, the edges crinkling, and then, with a swift, decisive rip, he tore it in half.

The sound was louder than he'd expected, a crisp *snap* that echoed like a gunshot. His heart leapt, pounding against his ribcage as he dropped the shredded pieces, watching them flutter to the floor like fallen leaves. A low hiss broke the silence—the forcefield's energy dissipating, its hum fading into nothing. Syn froze, breath held, and reached out a tentative hand. The air was empty, no resistance, no wall. It was a success.

"Move, move," he hissed to himself, snapping out of his daze. He lunged for the detonator, scooping it up with a clatter and jamming his thumb against the stop button. The screen blinked, the timer at 11:22:31—a heartbeat away from disaster. He exhaled, a shaky breath of relief, and clutched it tight, the cold metal grounding him as his pulse steadied.

The bathroom—his escape—was just steps away, its crimson curtains swaying faintly in the recycled air. He took off, boots pounding the floor, the real contract a reassuring weight in his pocket. Vera's private pod waited beyond that hatch, a sleek lifeline to freedom, to the princess, to his duty. He could taste it—open space, the hum of a ship under his control, the chance to turn this trap on its head.

But as he reached the bathroom threshold, the bedroom door hissed open behind him, a sound that stopped him dead in his tracks. His head whipped around, dread pooling in his gut as Vera stepped through, her silhouette framed by the corridor's harsh light. The doors slid shut with a soft *thud*, sealing them in together. A smile plastered her face—wide, triumphant, and sharp as a blade. Her purple hair gleamed, her olive uniform pristine despite the chaos she wielded, and her eyes locked onto him with a predator's glee.

"Vera!?" Syn gasped, his voice cracking, his escape halted mid-stride.