Ethan leaned back in his chair, his arms still folded, the weight of the conversation lingering like smoke. Krell, ever composed, adjusted his cufflinks with meticulous care, the glint of silver catching the dim light. He seemed content to let the silence stretch, to let Ethan stew in the aftermath of the bounty reveal. But Ethan wasn't an idiot, he knew Krell wasn't the type to hold a private meeting just to hand over credits and ask for his strategic insights.
There was more.
There was always more.
Krell laced his fingers together and rested them on the table, leaning in just enough to make the moment feel deliberate. His smile softened, losing its predatory edge, but his eyes... they stayed the same. Calculating.
"There's one final matter we need to discuss," Krell said, voice smooth as glass.
Ethan didn't flinch. He tilted his head slightly, watching the man with the detached focus of a soldier waiting for the next shot to fire.
"Of course there is," Ethan muttered.
Krell chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "The Federation and especially Ashen Prime recognizes your contributions to Kynara, Mr. Walker. Beyond the bounty, beyond the battlefield... you've become something of a symbol here. The people know your name. They whisper it in refugee camps and half-rebuilt settlements. The man who killed Drakor Krenna. The man who broke the Black Sun Syndicate."
Ethan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't care about being a symbol. He wasn't a martyr, wasn't some selfless hero standing on a pedestal. He'd fought to finish the job, because that's what he did. But he let Krell talk. Let him lay out whatever trap he was constructing.
"The Federation, in cooperation with the Kynaran Coalition, wants to offer you an honorary title," Krell continued, his voice like silk over steel. "Something ceremonial. A representative of the new partnership between Ashen Prime and Kynara's leadership."
Ethan raised a brow, leaning back in his chair. "A figurehead?"
"A liaison," Krell corrected, his smile never wavering. It was polished, practiced, the kind of smile worn by people who dealt in politics like others dealt in weapons. "With privileges, of course. You'd gain access to advanced Federation technology in the Ashen Sector's capital space station. Upgrades for your ship, state-of-the-art weaponry, armor, and experimental gadgets that rarely make it onto the market. Tools that could make you nearly untouchable."
He laced his fingers together, elbows resting on the table. "You'd also receive elevated security clearance during interstellar travel, bypassing some of the more... tedious bureaucratic hurdles most mercenaries face. Fewer scans. Fewer questions. No surprise inspections when you dock at restricted stations."
Ethan's fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm against the armrest. The offer dangled in the air like bait, gleaming with the promise of power and freedom. It almost sounded too good.
"And what do you get?" Ethan asked, slicing through the performance like a blade. His voice was sharp enough to cut, but Krell didn't even flinch.
The governor leaned back, shoulders settling into the chair like he'd been waiting for that exact question. He exhaled slowly, the edges of his smile thinning into something more honest and far more dangerous.
"A face," Krell admitted, voice dipping into a quieter register, as if the room itself needed to lean in to hear. "A name. A story the people can cling to. Rebuilding Kynara is as much a psychological battle as it is logistical. Infrastructure can be restored, buildings can be rebuilt... but morale? Trust? Those are harder to piece back together."
He gestured toward the shattered skyline beyond the window, where reconstruction crews crawled over broken structures like ants, their lights flickering against the darkness. "People need hope. They need a victory to believe in. If you accept this role, you become the living proof that the Federation and the Coalition are working together. That their suffering meant something."
Krell tilted his head, watching Ethan like a predator gauging its prey. "You help smooth the transition. Quiet the unrest. A hero standing beside the new leadership... it makes for a powerful image."
Ethan let out a slow breath, jaw clenching. The word "hero" sat bitter on his tongue. He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a man who had barely survived. A man who had dragged himself through hell, not to inspire anyone, but simply to make sure the people trying to kill him stayed dead.
"You think slapping my face on a poster makes all that happened go away?" Ethan asked, voice low.
Krell's gaze sharpened. "No. But it makes it easier for them to hope. And hope is what keeps people from tearing themselves apart."
But Ethan Walker wasn't a symbol. He was a man. A man who had already bled for this world.
Ethan huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the sound dry and humorless. "A damn glorified propaganda puppet."
Krell didn't even try to deny it. "A mutually beneficial arrangement," he said instead, voice honeyed but firm. "I won't insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise. But you'd still get something out of it, Ethan. Freedom. And resources you wouldn't otherwise have access to."
Ethan rubbed his face, fingers dragging over the stubble along his jaw. The rough scrape against his skin grounded him, a small sensation to hold onto while his mind churned through the implications. He didn't answer immediately, letting the weight of the offer settle like cold iron in his gut, heavy and unforgiving.
He truly hated the thought of being paraded around like some victory trophy, a mascot for a cause he hadn't signed up for. He'd fought to stop the Black Sun Syndicate because it needed to be done, not for applause or statues. He wasn't a martyr, wasn't some beacon of hope meant to light the way for others. He was a survivor. And survivors didn't thrive on ideals, they made the choices that kept them breathing.
Still, the practical side of him, the part sharpened by months of clawing his way through a hostile planet and blood-soaked battles, couldn't ignore the truth. The benefits were real. Tangible. Krell wasn't dangling empty promises; he was offering Ethan something invaluable.
An edge.
Upgraded tech could mean the difference between life and death in a firefight. A ship outfitted with the Federation's latest systems would cut travel time and boost stealth capabilities. Advanced weapons, armor, gadgets... it wasn't just luxury. It was survival. And Ethan wasn't foolish enough to turn his back on survival.
He could play their game, just enough to stockpile the tools he needed to stay alive and get stronger. Strong enough that, one day, he wouldn't need anyone else's help.
He glanced out the window again, watching the slow crawl of reconstruction crews, the flicker of welding torches against the dark. Kynara was broken, but it was healing. The people would rebuild, with or without him. He'd already given enough. Paid his price in blood and shattered bones.
But if they wanted to use his name... maybe he could use them right back.
He just needed to make the terms crystal clear.