Five years. Five goddamn years, wasted, searching every fucking planet for his sorry ass, and what do I have to say for it but a few nasty scars, plenty of bad habits, and an endless prison sentence in this place that's so god-forsaken that you can't even breathe the natural air without being reduced to a pile of dust.

Then one fine day the bastard comes waltzing in here with that air of self-importance he always had and looks at me as if he expects me to worship his bloody-fucking-brilliant self, to run to him and pledge my never-ending allegiance.

Well, fuck him.

He ain't getting anything from me, that's for sure. And goddamn him for acting like he never left me when I needed him. As if he had it all planned out from the beginning and his running away was some great hero act. While we're at it, curse him for lying to me, too.

He always has to ruin my moment. You might say I'm a little bitter, but damn it, he killed that idiot guard with a teacup. A teacup. He fuckin' stole my kill. He lied to me about getting those eyes – he fucking lied to me and I believed the asshole – and it ruined my life. Fuck, I killed people to get sent to a slam just so I could get some goddamn eyes like his; I signed with mercs, killed people, got me a sentence over my own head, just for them goddamn eyes, and it didn't even work. Then he steals my fucking kill and blows me off like it doesn't matter.

Well, I'm Kyra now. I'm not his naïve little tag-along anymore – Jack is long gone, and with her went any sort of respect I had for the bastard who ruined my life.

Yet still, here I am lying in the darkness, listening to the dripping pipes, the distant growls, snorts and snores, straining to hear him breathing.

I don't think he even sleeps … ever.

The darkness is all-encompassing and now, more than ever, I wish I had those eyes of his. He probably knows I'm here, leaning on the rail with my legs dangling over the edge, my eyes closed (what use are they?), just listening. I bet he feels the anger burning my skin, the frustration emanating from me in tidal waves, the curiosity tingling me to the core. But he doesn't know my mind. He doesn't know that I dream about the crunch of his heavy footsteps, his soft chuckle and the wails of death while I suffocate in the pitch black of that ugly planet. He has no idea that I see a flash of two tiny, reflective orbs and smooth, curving muscles every time I close my eyes. He doesn't know.

As if he could ever understand what he did to me when he left me with that stupid holy-man on New Mecca. He wasn't human. He isn't human. He doesn't have fear, why should he have any other feelings?

I can hear him breathing now – steadily … evenly. He's asleep. Part of me wants to run this blade through his unsuspecting heart. But I find a larger part of me could never do it.

Well, I'll be damned. I guess I still love that son of a bitch.