Bonus Chapter “Blood in the Sky”

  Scene 1: Rin Receives the Letter

  —-: Rin

  The letter was waiting for her on her bunk.

  No note. No sender listed. Just the familiar, angular loop of a name she hadn’t heard spoken aloud in months:

  Sora Hoshizaki.

  Her old co-pilot.

  Her old shadow.

  The last person to follow her into the sky without hesitation—and the one who fell for it.

  Rin stared at the envelope for a long time.

  It was plain. Cream paper, folded crisp. No seal. But she could see the indentation of handwriting through the back if she tilted it under the light. The way Sora always pressed too hard when she wrote—like the words had to stay or else they weren’t real.

  The workshop hum filtered in through the wall. Someone—probably Taiga—was shouting about “jet-boosted cupcakes.” A wrench dropped. Laughter followed.

  But in her room, it was quiet.

  The envelope didn’t move.

  Didn’t breathe.

  Didn’t explain itself.

  Rin slid it into the top drawer of her flight locker without opening it.

  Then locked the drawer.

  Then walked out of the room like it hadn’t happened.

  Scene 2: Mei Asks If She’s Scared

  —-: Rin

  The crystal kettle on the upper walkway gave a polite ping as the pressure valve reset.

  Rin didn’t flinch. She just stared out over the training yard from the hangar balcony, arms folded tight against the wind.

  Below, Hana and Jiro were arguing about flight diagnostics again. Ren stood between them, looking vaguely like he’d rather eject from the conversation entirely. Somewhere, a wrench clattered. Taiga whooped. Someone probably fell off something.

  Rin didn’t look away from the skyline.

  But she knew Mei was already there, standing next to her.

  The silence stretched comfortably—for about seven seconds.

  Then—

  “You haven’t opened it.”

  Rin didn’t move. “What?”

  “The letter. You’ve been reaching for your locker key with your left hand. You’re right-handed.”

  Rin exhaled slowly through her nose. “Observant.”

  Mei gave a tiny shrug. “It’s part of my whole aesthetic.”

  Another pause.

  Then—

  “Are you scared?” Mei asked softly. “To read it?”

  Rin didn’t blink.

  Didn’t breathe, for a second.

  “No,” she said finally.

  “But you haven’t read it,” Mei replied. Not judging. Just stating.

  “I don’t need to.”

  Rin’s fingers flexed against her sleeve. “I already know what it says.”

  Mei tilted her head. “Do you?”

  “It’s blame. Or it’s guilt. Or it’s her trying to absolve me so she can move on and I don’t get to. Either way—same story.”

  The breeze kicked up, tugging a strand of hair across Rin’s cheek. She didn’t brush it away.

  “She didn’t even look at me, Mei,” she whispered. “When they pulled her from the wreckage, when she left the school, when I stood outside the infirmary for hours... She never looked. Not once.”

  Mei said nothing.

  Because she didn’t need to.

  Rin closed her eyes.

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  “I don’t need to read it. I’ve already rewritten it a hundred times in my head.”

  Mei waited a beat longer. Then said:

  “Maybe it’s not about what it says.”

  Rin turned.

  Mei was looking at her—not sharp, not pushing. Just… present.

  Soft. Real. Still.

  “Maybe it’s about why she wrote it at all,” she finished.

  And with that, Mei stepped away, calm as ever, disappearing down the stairwell with her coat fluttering behind her.

  Rin didn’t move for a long time.

  But this time… she was thinking about something besides the words.

  She was thinking about the why.

  Scene 3: Flashback – The Crash

  —-: Rin

  The world was red.

  Steam glared off the ring towers like glass set on fire.

  Wind screamed through the turns. Crystals buzzed under strain.

  Rin’s voice cut through the comms:

  “Bank right—now. Cut the third ring and follow me through the cross-drift. We’ll beat them to the fallback gate by three seconds.”

  “That’s too tight, Rin—”

  “We can do it. Trust me.”

  For a breath, Sora didn’t answer.

  Then: “Okay.”

  She followed.

  The dive through Ring 6 was clean.

  Ring 7 shimmered ahead, half-angled and buffeted by turbulence from the opposing team’s exhaust.

  Rin went first.

  Sliced through the gap so tight the sensors chirped a warning.

  Sora pulled in behind—off-axis by a half-second.

  It was just enough.

  The tailspin started instantly.

  Crystal coils flared red. The ship pitched sideways, clipped the lower arc of the ring—

  CRACK.

  Ren’s voice once told her that sound never leaves your ears.

  He was right.

  The impact spun Sora’s craft into a spiral—barrel-rolling end over end, pieces shattering off the fins. The emergency core kicked in late. Too late.

  She hit the edge of the course scaffolding and dropped like a bird with one wing torn off.

  Later, standing outside the infirmary with blood in her mouth from biting her lip too hard, Rin waited.

  Sora didn’t come out.

  She didn’t look at her.

  Not that day.

  Not the next.

  Not even when she left the team.

  Rin blinked.

  Back in the present.

  Her hands were clenched in her lap and her nails had left half-moons in her skin.

  The silence now was worse than the crash.

  Because it wasn’t about sound.

  It was about what she’d said… and what she couldn’t take back.

  Scene 4: Rin Reads the Letter

  —-: Rin

  The locker key felt colder than usual in her fingers.

  Rin turned it slowly, the metal catch clicking open with a mechanical sigh. The drawer glided out—familiar scuffs, old polishing cloths, backup goggles... and the letter.

  Still sealed.

  Still unbearable.

  But this time, she didn’t hesitate.

  She sat on the floor of her dorm, back against the bunk frame, legs crossed, the envelope in her lap.

  It tore open too easily. Like it wanted to be read.

  The paper inside smelled faintly of lavender soap.

  She unfolded it once. Then again.

  Her eyes caught the first line and—despite herself—she froze.

  Then read.

  Rin,

  I know what you’re probably expecting.

  And I almost wrote that version first—anger, sarcasm, the full drill.

  But I’ve had time. More time than I wanted.

  And I’ve come to a quiet place. Not just on the map—in me.

  The truth is...

  I was scared.

  Not of you. Never of you.

  Of how much I wanted to match you.

  Of how much I thought I had to.

  And when I couldn’t, I kept saying yes—even when I wasn’t sure.

  That move? That race?

  I said yes because I didn’t want to disappoint you.

  Not because you made me.

  But because you believed in me so hard, it felt like a dare.

  And I wanted to be the kind of pilot you saw when you looked at me.

  That wasn’t your fault.

  I should’ve spoken up. I should’ve said, “No. Not this time.”

  But I didn’t.

  I froze.

  So I crashed.

  And then I blamed you because it was easier than admitting I broke my own voice.

  I’m sorry, Rin.

  For not being honest with you.

  And for leaving without looking back.

  If you ever write me—I’ll read it.

  If not, that’s okay too.

  But I hope you know...

  I never stopped thinking the sky belonged to you.

  Even when it hurt to look at it.

  Fly safe.

  Always.

  —Sora

  Rin didn’t cry.

  Not the big kind. Not the kind with sobs and shaking.

  Just one sharp breath.

  A fist clenching around the edge of the page.

  And something behind her sternum unraveling—slowly, like the pressure release on a crystal vent.

  She folded the letter gently. No more creases than it already had.

  Then she reached for her pen.

  Scene 5: Rin Writes Back

  —-: Rin

  The ink bled just a little too much into the first word.

  Rin stared at the paper, then turned it over. Tried again.

  She sat at her desk, a single lantern lit overhead, its warm yellow glow cutting through the silence. The workshop sounds had long since faded. Her dorm door was locked. The world was just her, the paper, and the pen.

  This time, she didn’t write fast.

  She didn’t overthink it.

  She just told the truth.

  Sora,

  I didn’t expect your letter.

  I didn’t think you’d ever want to write me.

  And I didn’t think I deserved to be written to.

  I told myself I knew what it would say.

  I didn’t.

  You apologized, but you shouldn’t have done it alone.

  I was the one who called the move.

  I was the one who flew too sharp, too fast, too far.

  But what I didn’t realize back then—what I couldn’t admit—was that I wasn’t just flying against the other team.

  I was flying against everyone.

  Trying to prove something. Trying to matter. Trying to outrun that feeling that if I ever slowed down, the sky wouldn’t want me anymore.

  I pushed you too hard because I didn’t trust the sky to catch me if we fell.

  And I didn’t trust anyone else to hold it with me.

  That wasn’t fair.

  Not to you.

  Not to the team.

  Not even to myself.

  I thought carrying it all alone made me stronger.

  I was wrong.

  So… thank you. For saying what I couldn’t.

  And for still believing in my wings—even when I didn’t believe in yours.

  I hope you’re flying again.

  And if you are—don’t follow anyone else’s line but your own.

  You don’t need to match me.

  You never did.

  Fly safe.

  —Rin

  She folded the letter neatly. No fancy seal. No embellishments.

  Just a name and an address.

  Sora had left it in her return postscript. Rin hadn’t let herself notice it earlier.

  She slid it into the outbox by the mail chute, heart thrumming low like distant engine coils winding down.

  Then leaned against the cool metal for just a second.

  Not crying.

  Not smiling.

  Just... lighter.

  Mini Payoff

  In the next flight sim that week, Ren called out a vector correction on the fly. Sharp. Slightly unorthodox.

  Rin followed.

  No hesitation. No override. No rephrasing it to make it hers.

  She followed.

  And she smiled.