The marketplace noise never really stopped.

Even as Cassian and Nyxara broke away from the busiest streets, they could still hear the constant hum of Zakera Ward's lower levels – the distant shouts of vendors, the overlapping chatter of civilians, the rhythmic pulse of bass-heavy music bleeding from storefronts.

But beneath it all, there was another sound. A quieter tension.

Cassian could feel it between him and Nyxara, too. They walked in sync, but not together.

They'd been friends at the Academy – friendly competition, friendly bets, friendly debates over who had the highest simulation scores. But out here? This was the real thing.

And Cassian wasn't sure where they stood anymore.

Nyxara had always been ahead of him in certain ways. Sharper with tech. Faster at problem-solving. Always knowing what was coming three steps before anyone else. And he was fine with that. He knew his strengths.

Except right now, he wasn't feeling them.

Nyxara hadn't said much since they started patrol. Just the occasional dry remark when she caught him scanning intersections too carefully. And now, as they moved deeper into the side streets, Cassian could feel her glancing at him again.

"Relax," she said, voice low, casual, unreadable. "Nobody's grading you out here."

Cassian's mandibles twitched. "That obvious?"

Nyxara smirked, tilting her head. "Just a little."

Cassian exhaled slowly. He didn't like being this readable.

She kept walking, hands resting near her holster but casual, her pace never slowing. Cassian followed, adjusting his stance. He was about to say something – maybe fire back a comment, something to pull the edge off his own tension.

A voice from around the corner gave him pause.

"Just give me the creds, and this doesn't have to get ugly."

Cassian stopped mid-step. A narrow alley stretched ahead of them, barely lit by the flickering glow of a broken neon sign. A human woman was pinned against the wall, hands up, wide-eyed. A mugger stood in front of her, knife pressed to her chest.

Cassian felt a tightness in his core.

This was it. His first live call. His training kicked in exactly as it was supposed to. He moved forward, hand dropping to his sidearm, stance shifting into exactly what they drilled at the Academy.

"C-Sec!" His voice came out strong, firm, just like it was supposed to. The mugger's head snapped toward him. Cassian took another step, slow, controlled. "Drop the weapon."

The mugger didn't move. Cassian could see the calculation behind his eyes. Too much hesitation. He needed to move – needed to react before the guy made a decision.

But he didn't.

Not fast enough.

The mugger's grip shifted – his arm started to turn toward Cassian instead. Cassian's fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol.

This is it.

This is where I –

A blur of movement.

Cassian barely registered Nyxara stepping past him before it was already over. One clean motion. She caught the mugger's wrist – fast, precise, practiced. Before he could react, she yanked his arm sideways and drove her knee into his ribs.

The knife clattered to the ground.

Cassian watched, still holding his gun, still frozen in place.

The mugger hit the pavement a second later, groaning in pain. Nyxara stayed calm. Unshaken. She stepped back, adjusting the grip on her cuffs like she hadn't just taken someone apart in under three seconds.

Cassian finally exhaled.

Too late.

The weight of it hit immediately. He should have reacted sooner. Nyxara had moved without hesitation. Cassian had hesitated.

She knelt down, snapped the cuffs into place, and finally looked up at him. "Problem, Solvaris?"

Cassian felt his mandibles twitch. "Not my best work."

Nyxara tilted her head slightly, scanning him. Then, she shrugged. "You lived through it. Call it a win."

Cassian's jaw tightened. That wasn't good enough.

The mugger groaned as Nyxara hauled him to his feet, securing the cuffs with a sharp, practiced motion. Cassian exhaled slowly, holstering his pistol. The adrenaline was still humming under his skin, but he forced himself to refocus. There was still one more person to deal with.

The woman – the victim – hadn't moved. She was still pressed against the alley wall, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring at the knife that had been knocked to the ground.

Cassian took a step forward, then stopped. He'd never done this part outside of a simulation. Nyxara glanced at him, her mandibles twitching in something that might have been amusement, sympathy, or just the knowledge that she was going to have to step in if he froze up again.

Cassian steeled himself. He lowered his voice, making sure it wasn't the same authoritative tone he'd used on the mugger. "Ma'am?"

The woman flinched slightly, dragging her eyes up to meet his. She was human, mid-thirties, dressed like she'd come from work. The kind of civilian who had probably lived in the Wards for years – long enough to know what a close call felt like.

Long enough to know that C-Sec didn't always show up in time.

Cassian offered his hand to help her steady herself. She hesitated – not fear, just caution. Then she took it. "You okay?" he asked.

She nodded, but it was shaky. "Yeah. I mean – I think so."

Her fingers tensed slightly in his grip before she let go. She took a steadying breath, and when she exhaled, some of the shock drained from her face, replaced by something sharper.

"That bastard just tried to kill me over fifty credits," she muttered. "Unbelievable."

Nyxara snorted. "You'd be surprised what people are willing to kill for down here."

The woman shot her a flat look. "I wouldn't."

Cassian saw it then – the resignation. She wasn't panicking. She wasn't overwhelmed. She was tired. Tired of this being normal.

Cassian frowned. He didn't like that. "We'll need to take a statement," he said, voice steady. "Do you need medical?"

The woman shook her head. "No. I'm fine."

Cassian wasn't convinced. He caught the way her hand lingered near the spot on her chest where the knife had pressed. Like she could still feel the weight of it. He had to bite back the instinct to push. Because pushing wasn't how things worked down here.

In the Presidium? Maybe. Up there, people expected to be protected. Expected justice. But in the Wards?

People barely expected to survive.

She took another deep breath, resetting herself. Then she turned, eyes flicking between both of them. "You two new?"

Nyxara raised an eyebrow. "That obvious?"

The woman huffed a dry laugh. "You both just stopped a mugging, and you still look like you're trying to figure out what to say to me."

Cassian felt his mandibles twitch.

Nyxara smirked at him. "Yeah, Solvaris. You wanna tell her your speech?"

Cassian ignored that.

The woman crossed her arms. "Don't get me wrong. I appreciate you stepping in." She glanced down at the still-groaning mugger at Nyxara's feet. "But I won't hold my breath waiting for charges to stick."

Cassian felt something shift in his chest. "That's not how this works," he said automatically.

The woman just raised an eyebrow. Like she had heard that before.

Nyxara didn't say anything at first. Then she shrugged. "She's got a point."

Cassian turned to her, irritation creeping into his tone. "He had a weapon. He threatened her. That's an easy conviction."

Nyxara's mandibles twitched. "Uh-huh. And what happens when he's out in a week?"

Cassian hesitated. Because he didn't have an answer for that.

The woman sighed, shaking her head. "Like I said. I won't hold my breath."

Cassian bristled.

There was a system. There were laws. But what if she was right?

Before he could respond, Nyxara gave the woman an easy nod. "Look, I won't make you any promises," she said. "But I will make sure this guy has a shitty week."

The woman studied her, then let out a short laugh – small, but real. "Good enough."

Nyxara smirked. "Damn right it is."

Cassian exhaled slowly, still feeling the weight of the conversation as he tapped his omni-tool, sending in their report.

Nyxara watched him, amusement flickering in her eyes. She leaned in slightly. "First week's a bitch, huh?"

Cassian gave her a look. She grinned.

And slowly, the tension of the moment shifted. Not gone. Not solved.

But the weight felt like it wasn't his alone to carry anymore.

Zakera Ward had a sound to it.

A constant hum of movement, voices, the distant buzz of skycars weaving through the upper levels. Selyna had learned to tune most of it out.

Which was why, when she stepped onto the quiet street outside the warehouse in question, she noticed the wrongness immediately.

No sound. No movement. Too quiet.

A "routine noise complaint," the dispatcher had said. But this place wasn't quiet because the problem had solved itself. It was quiet because whoever was inside didn't want to be found.

And that was enough for her.

Selyna rolled her shoulders, flexing her fingers once at her sides, eyes scanning the door. The markings on the frame weren't obvious – not unless you knew what to look for.

Selyna did.

She'd spent years running jobs for Eclipse. She knew their smuggling ops, knew their cache locations, knew how they marked their warehouses. Knew exactly how many corners they cut when they thought no one was looking. No security drones. No turrets. No sentries posted at the doors.

Sloppy.

That alone almost pissed her off more than the crime itself.

She could call it in. She should. Bailey would say she should.

But Bailey wasn't here.

And these bastards?

They were going to see her before they even had a chance to run.

She raised one leg – and kicked the door in. The second she stepped inside, the whole operation froze. Four mercs. One table, stacked with stolen weapons. Two crates in the back, likely full of smuggled goods they weren't supposed to have.

They hadn't been expecting her.

Selyna grinned. "Miss me?"

For half a second, no one moved. Then one of them – a batarian, a little too slow on the draw – reached for his weapon. Selyna was already moving.

The fight didn't last long. It never did. They were mercs, not soldiers. Eclipse always hired cheap when they thought no one was paying attention.

Selyna moved through them like a blade, fast and clean. The first went down hard – a sharp strike to the side of his neck. The second managed a single swing before she countered, twisting his own momentum against him, slamming his head into the edge of the table.

The third almost got his gun up. She disarmed him in one motion, pistol whipping him across the face.

The fourth?

He was already on the floor, scrambling to crawl toward the exit.

Selyna exhaled, slow and measured.

She cracked her knuckles. "See, this is why you never hire amateurs."

By the time backup arrived, she was standing over the last guy, rolling her shoulders like she'd just finished a warmup.

Bailey's stare could have melted steel.

Selyna had seen a lot of unimpressed authority figures in her time, but Bailey had perfected it. He wasn't yelling. Wasn't even particularly angry. He just looked at her like she was a goddamn headache that wouldn't go away.

And Selyna had to admit, that was fair.

She sat across from him, arms crossed, completely relaxed.

"So," Bailey muttered, rubbing a hand down his face, "just so we're clear, your first instinct when faced with an unsecured crime scene was to kick the door in?"

Selyna tilted her head. "Technically, my first instinct was to check for external security measures."

Bailey's expression didn't change.

"You know, the worst part is, I don't even know if you're lying to me."

Selyna smirked. "That's the worst part?"

Bailey ignored that.

Instead, he tapped something on his omni-tool. A personnel file flashed across his screen – her file. He turned it toward her.

Her Spectre application was still open.

Selyna's smirk faltered.

Bailey watched her closely.

"You want to be a Spectre?"

He wasn't guessing. He already knew.

Selyna kept her face neutral, but inside, her mind was already working. The application process wasn't exactly classified, but it sure as hell wasn't public knowledge either. Bailey must have had access to the candidacy petitions – probably the same ones the Council reviewed before giving someone the green light for trials.

Which meant he knew.

Knew that she had been pushing for candidacy for years. Knew that joining C-Sec wasn't a career move – it was a stepping stone. Knew that every arrest, every decision, every high-risk case she volunteered for was just another notch on her record to make her seem lawful enough to be considered.

Bailey let the silence stretch, watching her.

Then, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "Good luck," he said. "But right now, you're a cop. Act like it."

For the first time in a long time, Selyna didn't have a response.

Because he was right. And that was the worst part.

She wanted to argue – wanted to point out that if she had waited, they would have moved the goods. That if she hadn't acted fast, there wouldn't have been anything to arrest them for.

But it wasn't about that.

It was about how she did it. It was about who she was trying to be. She wasn't a mercenary anymore. And she wasn't a Spectre. Not yet.

She was a cop.

Which meant rules. It meant waiting. Watching. Collecting evidence. Doing things the long way, the right way.

And Selyna had never been good at waiting.

Bailey sighed, rubbing his temples like he could feel a migraine forming. "You know," he muttered, "I actually had to talk a couple of people out of writing you up for excessive force."

Selyna blinked. "Excessive?" She laughed, leaning back in her chair. "Bailey, if I wanted excessive, there wouldn't have been anyone left to arrest."

Bailey just gave her a flat look.

Selyna huffed. Fine. Maybe not the best joke.

Bailey leaned forward again, studying her like he was still trying to figure out what the hell to do with her. "You want to make Spectre one day?" he asked.

Selyna didn't hesitate. "Yeah."

"Then start acting like it."

Selyna scoffed. "Spectres don't wait around for orders."

"No," Bailey admitted. "But they do know when to let the bad guy come to them."

She narrowed her eyes, watching him carefully. "You sound like someone who knows a thing or two about Spectres."

Bailey didn't answer that. He just tapped something on his omni-tool. "You're benched for the rest of the shift."

Selyna sat forward. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

"This is ridiculous."

"This is restraint." Bailey gave her a pointed look. "Figure out how to use it before I start assigning you to nothing but fraud reports."

Selyna groaned, pushing up from the chair. "Fine. Whatever. I'll go get a drink."

Bailey huffed a laugh. "Good. Try not to break a bottle over anyone's head while you're at it."

Selyna didn't answer. She was already halfway out the door.

The moment Leila stepped into the apartment, she knew he was here.

The place smelled like cheap takeout and too much cologne, and the soft thud of music playing from his omni-tool bled into the room. Luca was exactly where she expected him to be – sprawled on her couch, boots up on the table like he owned the place.

His omni-tool was active, casting blue light against the dim glow of the apartment, fingers moving idly over a message window. Next to him, an empty bottle of beer and a half-eaten container of noodles sat on the armrest.

Leila exhaled sharply. She didn't know why she was surprised.

It was her apartment, but he was the one who spent the most time in it.

Most nights, she barely made it home before crashing at C-Sec housing, working late, running drills, drowning herself in casework. Her brother, meanwhile, had no problem making himself comfortable.

She let it happen because the alternative was worse. She couldn't make him stop what he was doing. But at least if he was here, she knew where he was.

Luca finally looked up, grinning like he hadn't just let himself in and made himself at home. "Look at you, Officer Dawes."

Leila rolled her eyes. "That gonna be funny every time?"

"Absolutely."

She dropped her keys onto the counter, moving toward the kitchen, but kept her eyes on him.

Luca hadn't turned off his omni-tool. That alone was a bad sign. He wasn't hiding whatever he was working on. Which meant he didn't think he had to. She caught a glimpse of the screen – a chat log, lines of text moving fast.

A deal in progress.

Her stomach twisted. "You really want to be this obvious?" she asked, nodding toward his wrist. "At least put a privacy screen on that thing."

Luca's fingers stilled for half a second. Then he grinned, all lazy charm and practiced ease. "Relax. You think I don't know what I'm doing?"

"No," Leila muttered. "I think that's the problem."

Luca sighed like she was exhausting. "Leila, I know you're all about your whole righteous-cop thing now, but let's not pretend this is a shock."

He leaned back, arms stretched behind his head, sprawled even wider across her couch. "This is what I do. You can't change that."

Leila felt it then. That familiar heat in her chest – the sharp, immediate need to argue, to push, to shake him out of whatever bullshit he was telling himself.

She wanted to say he was smarter than this. She wanted to say he didn't have to do this. She wanted to say something, anything, that would get through to him. But she didn't.

Because what was the point?

They'd had this fight a thousand times before. And every time, she walked away feeling like she'd lost. She exhaled, slow and steady, forcing her fists to unclench. Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the door.

Luca didn't stop her. Didn't call after her. Just let her go. Like he knew exactly how this would end.

And Leila hated that more than anything.

The walk back to the precinct was quieter than it should have been.

Leila should have been thinking about Luca. About what she'd say to him next time, about how the hell she was going to stop him before he got himself killed.

But she wasn't.

Because she already knew how this went.

There was no stopping Luca. Just waiting for the moment she had to pick up the pieces.

She wasn't in the mood to sit in the bullpen and wait for another damn patrol assignment. She needed to hit something.

The precinct gym was empty this time of night. Most officers either hit it before their shifts started or not at all.

But Leila wasn't alone.

The sound of someone hitting the heavy bag echoed through the space – steady, rhythmic, the kind of controlled force that came from someone who wasn't just working out, but working through something.

Leila recognized the stance before she even saw his face.

Jace Wilcox.

Because of course it was.

Jace didn't stop when she walked in. Didn't acknowledge her at all. Just kept hammering into the bag – jab, cross, hook, reset.

He was still in his uniform pants, but his jacket was gone, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His knuckles were wrapped, but she could already see how raw they were getting.

Leila rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck as she walked over to the second bag. She didn't say anything at first. Just stepped into position, raised her fists, and started hitting. Her form wasn't clean like his. Jace fought like someone who'd trained for it. Leila fought like someone who'd learned how to hit first and ask questions later.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the steady rhythm of fists slamming into canvas.

Finally, Jace spoke. "You gonna tell me what's got you punching like that?"

Leila exhaled sharply through her nose. "Not really."

Jace nodded like he expected that. Didn't push. Didn't stop, either. The next hit he landed was harder. Something frustrated, barely contained.

Leila recognized it. She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

"You gonna tell me what's got you punching like that?" she asked.

Jace didn't answer right away. Just landed one more solid strike before stepping back, rolling out his shoulders. Finally, he sighed. "Long day."

Leila snorted. "No shit."

Leila didn't know how long they'd been standing there, hitting separate bags, saying nothing. Could've been minutes, could've been longer. The weight of the day, of the week, of the whole damn life she'd built for herself, sat in her ribs like an anchor.

And still, she kept hitting.

Because what else was she gonna do?

Jace was the first one to stop. She heard him step back, exhale sharply, shake out his arms. Leila didn't look at him. Not until he spoke.

"You always fight like that?"

Leila slowed just a fraction, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

Jace was watching her now, really watching. Not just her form, but everything else. The way she was punching too fast, too reckless. The way her weight shifted forward like she wasn't just hitting a bag – she was trying to knock something down.

Like she was already in a fight with something else.

Leila rolled her shoulders. "What, you gonna give me a lesson on technique?"

Jace shrugged. "Just saying, you don't punch like someone trying to train. You punch like someone trying to win."

Leila exhaled sharply. "And?"

Jace wiped a hand over his face, grabbing his water bottle. Didn't answer right away, before his voice dropped a bit lower. "And you're not fighting a bag, Dawes."

Leila clenched her jaw.

She should've known he'd see it. Jace didn't talk much, didn't pry, but he noticed shit. He noticed the way she walked in here like she was already on edge. Not like someone getting in a workout – like someone who needed to break something.

And now he was trying to work out the why.

She should've deflected. Should've said something easy, something that would steer the conversation back into the comfortable haze of small talk and half-assed jokes. But she was tired.

So instead, she huffed a breath, rolling her wrists. "Sometimes the bag deserves it."

Jace gave her a long, unreadable look. Then he snorted. "Yeah. Sometimes it does."

For a few moments, neither of them said anything. Jace leaned against the bag, tilting his head at her. "So," he muttered, "who pissed you off this bad?"

Leila didn't even hesitate. "You."

Jace huffed out a soft laugh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, you and your stupid – " she gestured vaguely at him, "broody, ex-military, I-only-solve-problems-with-my-fists thing."

Jace raised a brow. "So me existing pissed you off?"

Leila smirked. "Pretty much."

Jace scoffed, shaking his head. Didn't push her. Didn't need to. Because Leila was the one who filled the silence first. She wasn't even sure why.

"Ran into my brother," she muttered, flexing her fingers.

Jace didn't react right away. Didn't say anything stupid like Oh, you have a brother? Didn't ask if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

He just nodded.

Waited.

Leila huffed. "He's still doing stupid shit. Still thinks I can't see exactly what he's doing."

Jace let out a slow breath. "And you think you can stop him."

Leila froze. Just for a second.

Then, too fast, too sharp – "Didn't say that."

Jace studied her. And then, finally, he just said it. "You protecting someone who doesn't want to be saved?"

Leila went still.

The words hit too sharp, too accurate, too close to something she didn't want to talk about.

She exhaled, shook out her hands, and went right back to hitting the bag. Jace watched her for a long moment. Didn't push. Didn't need to.

Because Leila hadn't answered.

And that was answer enough.

Cassian had spent his whole life walking these halls.

The Presidium precinct wasn't just a workplace for his father. It was where Cassian had grown up. Every polished tile, every glass-paneled office, every C-Sec officer walking with that familiar stiff-backed, precise posture – he knew it all.

It was clean. Controlled. Orderly. Everything the Wards were not.

And that was exactly why his father had called him here.

Deputy Executor Kaius Solvaris sat behind his desk, a holoscreen active in front of him. Cassian had barely stepped inside the office before his father glanced up, his gaze sharp as ever.

"Cassian."

The door shut behind him, and Cassian instinctively straightened. Years of training – not at the academy, but at home – had drilled that into him.

"Sir."

Kaius exhaled. "You don't have to do that here."

Cassian wasn't sure what he meant. The formal greeting? The stiff posture? All of it?

That was just how he'd learned to carry himself.

But he didn't argue. Instead, he crossed the room and stood at perfect attention in front of the desk. Professional. Polished. Exactly the way his father expected him to be.

Kaius watched him for a long moment. Then he tapped his omni-tool. A personnel file flickered onto the screen – Cassian's. "You don't belong in the Wards."

Cassian felt his jaw tighten, but he didn't react. Kaius continued, calm, measured, like he was stating an objective fact. "There's an open position here. Presidium patrol. A direct transfer. It's yours if you want it."

Cassian wasn't surprised. He'd seen it coming the second he stepped foot in the office. His father had never been subtle.

And yet, knowing didn't make it any less frustrating.

Cassian exhaled slowly. Even. Collected. "I was assigned to the Wards."

"Yes," Kaius said. "And I can reassign you."

His father folded his hands together. "Cassian, you have the record. The discipline. The Solvaris name. You don't have to waste years in the lower districts when you could be exactly where you're meant to be."

Where you're meant to be.

Cassian had heard that phrase his entire life. As if his future had already been written. He didn't answer right away. Because if he wasn't careful, he'd say something he couldn't take back.

Instead, he chose his words carefully. "I don't want favors."

"This isn't a favor." Kaius tilted his head. "This is what's best for you."

Cassian clenched his fists at his sides, but kept his expression perfectly neutral. "And what's best for me is skipping over the job everyone else has to work through?" His voice was calm, but pointed. "Just taking an easy position because my father wants me to?"

Kaius didn't blink. "You'd be safe."

Cassian let out a quiet, bitter breath. "This isn't about safety."

Kaius watched him for a moment, then leaned back slightly in his chair. "Do you know how many officers come from families like ours?" he asked, voice even, steady, deceptively casual.

Cassian didn't answer. Because he already knew.

Families like the Solvaris line. Legacy officers. Generations of C-Sec service, moving through the ranks the way they always had. Not through trial and error. Not through grit or ambition. Through connections. Through names that carried weight. Through a well-oiled machine designed to place them exactly where they "belonged."

Cassian had no interest in being placed anywhere. He wasn't going to be given a title.

He was going to earn it.

"I appreciate the offer," Cassian said carefully, voice even, polite. "But I'll make it on my own."

His father's mandibles twitched slightly, the only break in his otherwise unreadable expression. He sighed. "You're making this harder than it has to be."

Cassian's brow furrowed. Because he knew what his father was really saying.

Not harder for yourself.

Harder for me.

Cassian held his ground. "I'm staying in the Wards."

Kaius didn't argue. Didn't tell him he was making a mistake. Didn't tell him he'd regret it.

Because he didn't have to. His silence said everything.

By the time Cassian walked out of the office and stepped back onto the Presidium's open walkways, the conversation was still ringing in his head. He had said all the right things. Had stood his ground. Had refused to let his father control his career.

And yet –

Cassian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, tension still settling too deep in his bones. Even now, even after everything, he could still hear his father's words sitting heavy in his chest.

"You don't belong in the Wards."