Chapter Text
There were mornings, even now, when Cassian woke before the sunrise—if you could call the thin, jaundiced strip behind the city towers a sunrise at all. In those hours, the world breathed its quietest; the factories fell silent and the city’s veins pulsed only with the drowsy shuffle of early risers, sabacc losers, and the ghostly linger of last night’s blaster fire echoing down stone alleys. Cassian would lie on the mattress—nothing more than stitched rags atop cold concrete—letting his breath come and go, listening to his body. Waiting for the shape of the day’s pain to reveal itself.
It came in varieties: a fuzzy weight behind his eyes, the tremble in his right hand when he flexed it, a stuttering drop to his heartbeat that sent a rush of cold all the way down his back. Most days, he told himself it was just the price of living rough, the aftershock of another close call, the punishment for sleeping with a blaster for a pillow. He had lost count of the nights he’d traded rest for readiness—just one ear pressed to the door, the other to the floor, catching the creak of boots on the stairwell, the distant wail of sirens, the whimper of wind slicing through ruined rooftops. But lately, the pain had grown roots. It dug in. Made itself at home.
On this morning, it was the vertigo that greeted him first. Cassian tried to sit up—slowly, careful not to wake Bix, curled a world away on the other side of the battered room. The walls sweated with old rain and industrial grime, streaked with posters for a workers’ strike that ended in blood years ago, and as Cassian pressed his palms to the cement, the floor swam beneath him. He felt it coming—the slow, sick spin, the nausea climbing like a cold animal up his ribs. He closed his eyes and breathed. Counted: one, two, three. Waited for the world to right itself.
It didn’t. Or maybe he’d forgotten what steady ever felt like.
He rose anyway, knuckles grazing the rough stone, breath hot in his nose. The city called, and there was no time for weakness. Cassian tugged on the jacket that passed for armor, moving quietly around the room—a ritual now, performed in silence, even with Bix right there. He traced the scar on his wrist—old, ugly, a souvenir from another cell, another world—without meaning to. The chill on his skin made him shiver, and for a moment, he lingered by the window, peering out at the city’s underbelly. The horizon bled rust and smoke. Barges groaned down the river, and high above, a Star Destroyer hung like a silent threat—distant, yes, but always overhead. Even the weather felt imperial, heavy and chemical and not meant for lungs like his.
He watched, head swimming, as a flock of starlings darted through a gap in the roofs. They moved like smoke, twisting, collapsing, reforming. Free, and not free.
Behind him, Bix stirred—just a breath, a rustle of blanket, but it made him tense. He forced himself to move, each step measured, muscles stiff with the effort of not showing. Not showing anything. He was already tired, and the day hadn’t even started.
He told himself, It’ll pass. Everything passes. Even this.
But as he laced up his boots, his fingers clumsy and numb, he could feel the lie settle in his mouth—flat, metallic, too familiar.
He tried to shake it off. There was always a job. A place to be. A man to meet. It was safer to move than to think. Safer still to pretend. He slipped out the door, soft as a shadow, hoping to beat Bix to the punch. He didn’t want her questions. Didn’t want her eyes on the way he gripped the banister, the way his knees threatened to give on the stairs, the stutter in his stride. He didn’t want her to see how hard he was breathing by the time he hit the street, how the light seemed too bright, the world too loud, his own heart a frantic drum in his chest.
He told himself, It’s nothing. Just another bruise. The galaxy leaves bruises.
He kept walking, shoving his hands into his pockets, feeling for the comfort of the small, cold detonator he always carried. Just in case. Something solid in a body going soft.
The market was waking—stalls creaking open, vendors arguing in a half-dozen languages, the air thick with the scent of old oil, bruised fruit, and the burned-sugar tang of caf. Cassian ducked his head, weaving through the crowds, feeling every jostle in his bones. He thought he might get lost in the noise, that maybe the chaos would drown out the trembling in his hands, the ache in his skull, the dull fear crawling at the base of his brain. He tried to lose himself in the press of bodies, the grit beneath his boots, the language of barter and bluff. He almost succeeded, until a hand caught his sleeve.
“Cassian.”
It was Bix, of course. She always found him.
He turned, blinking at the brightness of her eyes, the worry carved deep around her mouth. He tried to smile. It felt thin, but she let it go. For now.
“Didn’t hear you get up,” she said. There was grit in her voice—a tiredness he recognized in himself. “You heading out already?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She watched him, and Cassian felt himself shrinking, becoming small under her gaze. He hated it—hated being seen, being known. She was too sharp, too stubborn, too close to the truth. He looked away, busying himself with a crate of power cells.
Bix said nothing. But she didn’t have to. Cassian could feel the question hovering in the space between them, as palpable as the morning fog. Are you all right? It was always that question. And he was always lying.
He picked up a battered comm, checked its charge, tried to move the conversation along. “Any news from Vel?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant. “The shipment?”
“Not yet,” Bix said, and he could hear the edge in her words. “You sure you’re up for this run? You look—”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I’m fine.”
But even as he said it, the vertigo caught him again—a lurch, a flash of heat, the edges of the world going soft. He gripped the crate, hoping she didn’t see the white of his knuckles.
Bix was quiet, and for a heartbeat, Cassian let himself imagine what it would be like to fall, right here, to let go and let the earth catch him. The thought made him furious—weakness was death, in this city, in this life. He forced himself to stand straight, to breathe through the shaking.
She reached out, put a hand on his shoulder. He nearly flinched.
“You need to see someone,” she said, low and insistent. “A medic. Now. Don’t make me drag you.”
Cassian bristled. “I said I’m fine.”
He saw her jaw tighten, the stubborn set of her mouth. “You’re not. You’re sweating. You can barely stand. You’re not hiding it as well as you think.”
He laughed—a dry, brittle sound. “What do you want, Bix? I can’t afford to stop. We need the money. We need the codes. There’s another raid tonight, and Mon Mothma wants answers. You want me to sit out and let someone else bleed?”
“I want you alive, Cassian. That’s all.”
For a moment, the world stilled—the market noise, the buzz of comms, the shouts and clatter. Cassian felt himself slipping, as if the words might be enough to break him. He tried to look away, but she caught his chin, made him meet her gaze.
“We lost too many already,” she said. “Don’t make me add you to the list.”
He couldn’t find an answer. Not one that didn’t taste like defeat.
The air pressed close. Cassian could feel sweat running down his back, cold and sticky. He wanted to fight, but there was nothing left in him but exhaustion and a gnawing, sick dread.
He nodded. “Fine,” he said at last. “Find your medic. But if you tell Luthen—if you tell anyone—”
She rolled her eyes. “I know. You’ll vanish. Like you always do.”
He tried to smile, but it hurt.
Bix led the way, her arm a steadying force at his back, and Cassian let her—for the first time, maybe, in longer than he could remember. They moved through alleys that stank of engine grease and old fear, past beggars and broken droids, through a door so small Cassian had to stoop. The room inside was dim, the air thick with the bitter-sweet scent of antiseptic and the coppery tang of blood.
The medic—thin, hollow-eyed, skin sallow from too many years underground—didn’t bother with pleasantries. He made Cassian sit on a folding chair, stripped his jacket, ran a scanner up his spine. Bix hovered, arms crossed, eyes hard. Cassian felt exposed, the sweat running down his chest, the tremor in his left hand growing worse the longer he tried to hide it.
The medic frowned at the readouts. “You work with solvents?” he asked, eyes flicking up.
Cassian hesitated. “Prison camp,” he said. “Old mines. Chemical leaks, sometimes.”
The medic nodded, lips pressed thin. He thumbed through a battered datapad, muttering. “How long have you had the symptoms?”
Cassian lied. “A few weeks.”
The medic didn’t buy it. “This didn’t start last week. You’re advanced. Coordination, memory, speech—ever lose words?”
Cassian looked at Bix. Her face was white as paper.
He looked down. “Sometimes.”
The medic sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Neurodegeneration. Not the usual stuff. Could be exposure, could be stress, could be just the galaxy’s way of paying you back for surviving this long. I can try to slow it. But you’re… you’re not getting better.”
Cassian sat very still. The world shrank to a pinprick. His mouth was dry. He tried to think of something to say, something brave, something clever.
All he managed was, “How long?”
The medic shrugged. “Months. A year, maybe. It’s hard to say. You’ll know. You’ll start forgetting.”
Cassian squeezed his hands into fists. The tremor made them shake.
He felt Bix’s hand on his shoulder, gentle and fierce. He wanted to pull away, to bite, to break something. Instead, he closed his eyes.
I’ll keep dying as long as I’m useful, he thought. But after that—bury me somewhere loud. Somewhere no one will hear me go quiet.
He listened to his own heart beating, frantic and fast and all too mortal, and wondered if this was how all wars ended: not in gunfire or glory, but in a backroom clinic, with the truth clawing its way out of your bones.
Cassian opened his eyes and tried to breathe. The city was still there, beyond the window. The war was still raging. He stood, slow and unsteady, and looked at Bix. She looked back, her eyes shining with something he didn’t want to name.
He nodded once. “We don’t tell anyone,” he said. “Not yet.”
Bix just nodded, and the world turned, slow and relentless.
Cassian stepped out into the noise, the heat, the stench, the war. He carried the silence with him.
And somewhere in the swirl of engines and shouting and distant sirens, he promised himself—he’d die loud, or not at all.