Page 69 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
He hands back the memos. “Pack a go-bag. You’re authorized to accompany him.”
That’s all it takes. No hesitation. I slot the paper in my pocket, clench my fist.
“Fuck bureaucracy,” I say, teeth tight. My voice trembles with emotion and adrenaline. “But take me to him.”
He nods and gestures for me to follow. Safe houses morph through shadowed corridors as I suit up, slipping tools into pockets, a spare image inducer tucked beneath my coat for him. The room hums with dry heat, ducted air, the promise of dawn.
I come to a stop at an empty cell—clean, sterile, but still infused with stale fear. My eyes lock onto the steel-meshed door. I taste antiseptic and hope in the air.
Dowron places a hand on the data pad beside the door. “Here.”
The cell unlocks. The door swings silently, slides open. I step inside.
Dayn is seated on the bench—clean-shaven, leashed only by his image skin. He looks up slow, surprise flickering across his golden eyes. Relief smacks his face in a raw rush.
I cross the cell in two strides and collapse into him. My arms curl around him, breath ragged.
He grips me tight. “You came.”
“I never left.”
He swallows. “They… released me?”
I pull back, searching his face. “Strong-armed, candy-coated, but yes.” I touch his cheek—warm, real. “Hellfighters pulled my strings.”
He lets out a breath I think he’s been holding since his cage closed. “Then I’m coming home. To you.”
I nod, half-laughing through tears. “Exactly.”
Dowron clears his throat. We release. He stands off to the side. We turn toward him. Dayn steps forward first—tall, cautious but sure.
Dowron hands Dayn a clearance pass. “Welcome back, Corporal Hellfighter.”
Dayn flexes his arms as cuffs fall away. He smirks. I squeeze his hand.
We walk down the corridors—together—toward the rising sun and the world that needs saving beyond this moonlit cage.
As we emerge, I breathe in the humid dawn air again—earth and promise swirling. Dayn shades his eyes as light lands between us.
“No more cages,” I murmur.
He pulls me into his side. “No more.”
And together, we step into the new light—rebels, lovers, warriors—ready for whatever comes next.
CHAPTER 19
DAYN
The hangar bay lights shift from dim to cold white as I—and the rest of the Hellfighters—step through the massive doors. A sea of glossy black armor and silent exosuits stretches across the floor like an unspoken oath, each plate polished so sharply I can see the reflection of the overhead girders in them. The smell that hits me isn’t gun oil anymore—it’s ozone, synthesizer plastic, and the sharp tang of freshly stamped holo-plates. This isn’t a makeshift warrior band anymore; it’s an institution. A whole damn empire in forged metal.
I move through the ranks, hands smoothed down the armor racks, feeling the low hum of readiness vibrating beneath my fingertips. This is their temple, and every Hellfighter here has a story—the silent code, the unspoken bond, the quiet reverence that comes with wearing this kind of power.
A technician approaches, motioning me forward. They hand me a data-pad embossed with Alliance and Hellfighter insignias. I flip it open, scanning the mission parameters: training regimens, assigned unit, hierarchy code, even my call sign—Vapor. Vapor. The ghost of a man who slipped in through silicon and shadows.
The gear, though, is what roots me back here: the armor is a perfect fit—sleek but powerful, with segmented plating that flexes like muscle. The exoskeleton hums as I move. My old claws itch, but here, I have reinforced gauntlets and cybernetic grips that channel speed into control, ferocity into purpose. It feels like I was made for this, but knowing I earned it only adds weight.
There’s a whisper—rising in the hangar. Stories of me, murmured in tone half in awe, half in wariness. I grin, fingers brushing the cold steel, but my eyes scan the faces: human, alien, hardened. They look for the killer in me. I stand tall, shoulders squared.
