Chapter 33: “Turbulence Below”

  Scene 1: Dorm Life Snapshot

  —-: Ren

  Ren didn’t realize he was the center of a social hurricane until he opened his shoe locker and found himself staring back.

  Literally.

  A plushie.

  His hair—stitched. His goggles—embroidery thread. His mouth—caught somewhere between a confident smile and a tiny scream.

  It wore a miniature version of his racing vest. Someone had even sewn the Silver Dart’s logo into the back, down to the little asymmetrical gear-tooth on the right shoulder.

  Pinned to its head with a heart-shaped clip was a note.

  “Hinode’s Heartbreaker ~ Fly Safe ”

  He just stood there.

  Staring.

  Wondering if this was, technically, some sort of voodoo.

  Behind him, Taiga whistled low. “Ooooh, somebody’s got a fan. Or twelve.”

  Ren shoved the plush back in the locker like it might bite him.

  “It’s weird.”

  “It’s adorable.”

  “It’s… weird.”

  Taiga leaned against the lockers, wagging his eyebrows. “You know there’s a fanart board now in the south commons, right? Saki said it was for ‘emotional morale support.’ There’s one drawing where you’re, like, shirtless, holding the Dart in your arms like a bride—”

  “PLEASE stop.”

  Ren tried not to imagine that. He failed. Horribly.

  Across the hall, a gaggle of first-year girls clustered near the vending crystal, half-whispering, half-giggling. One made the mistake of waving.

  He accidentally made eye contact.

  She screamed.

  Not a horror scream. A he’s-beautiful-anime scream.

  Ren closed his locker slowly. Like that might stop the embarrassment from leaking through the vents.

  Even Jiro had thoughts. “You need a strategy,” he said over lunch. “Either lean into it with tragic backstory eyes, or go full oblivious-idiot mode and charm everyone by accident.”

  “I don’t want any mode,” Ren groaned.

  But the world wanted something from him. It always did.

  And being the “Hinode Heartbreaker,” apparently, came with fan comics, stitched tributes, and classmates who now referred to him exclusively as “Captain Skycrush.”

  Which was flattering.

  And completely, absolutely terrifying.

  Scene 2: Hana & Mei Late Night Talk

  —-: Hana

  The overhead lantern flickered in time with Hana’s heartbeat.

  Or maybe she was imagining it.

  She sat hunched at her bench, sleeves rolled past her elbows, smudges of brass oil staining her knuckles. A tray of broken crystal gear teeth lay scattered in front of her like shards of some small, forgotten hope.

  She’d already tried re-cutting the locking pin twice.

  Too wide.

  Then too thin.

  Now her calipers trembled in her fingers.

  The rest of the hangar slept. Lights low. Tool shadows stretching like tired arms across the floor.

  She didn’t hear Mei enter. Just sensed her—the way silence shifts when someone else shares it.

  Mei crossed the floor quietly, coat trailing, boots muffled against the rubber mats. She didn’t speak. Just stood beside the bench, watching the way Hana held the tweezers like a lifeline.

  “Still working?” she asked finally.

  Hana’s laugh was more breath than sound. “Trying.”

  A pause. Then—

  Mei picked up a fractured chip. Held it to the light.

  “You’re rebuilding the intake gear from the Mark II filter system.”

  Hana nodded.

  “It was already cracked,” she murmured. “No one was going to fix it.”

  “So you are.”

  Another pause. Another breath.

  Hana looked down at her hands. At the raw edges of her cuticles. At the thin wire of her patience.

  “If I stop building,” she said, voice barely audible, “I fall apart.”

  The words dropped like a loose bolt on tile.

  Mei didn’t flinch.

  She set the crystal down. Sat on the bench beside her. Elbows on her knees, eyes ahead.

  “Then keep building,” Mei said softly.

  No judgment. No pity.

  Just truth. In the way Mei always offered it—quiet, calm, unshakable.

  Hana’s throat tightened.

  She didn’t cry.

  She just nodded once and returned to the gear. One more chip. One more notch.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  And Mei stayed beside her.

  Not to fix.

  Just to be there while she rebuilt.

  Scene 3: Ren’s Confession (to Grandpa)

  —-: Ren

  The rooftop hatch creaked like it hadn’t been oiled in a decade.

  Ren winced, then nudged it shut behind him and stepped into the cold breath of open night. The air was sharp with ozone and coil-metal. Pipes along the walls let out soft sighs of steam. The moon hung just behind a veil of gray, lighting the whole roof like silver coal.

  He stood near the edge, elbows on the railing, eyes on the sky.

  It didn’t look friendly tonight. It looked high. Distant. Like it didn’t know his name anymore.

  The wind tugged at his jacket. He didn’t move.

  Behind him, the hatch groaned again.

  Heavy boots. Familiar pacing.

  “You always sulk this dramatically, or am I just lucky?” his grandfather’s voice grunted.

  Ren didn’t turn around. “You followed me.”

  “I found you. Big difference.”

  Ren closed his eyes.

  Grandpa came to stand beside him—gruff, solid, radiating workshop heat like an old boiler still angry at the morning.

  “I flunked the spiral test,” Ren said quietly.

  “I heard.”

  “Everyone thinks I’m fine. Or good. Or... I don’t know. ‘Hinode’s Heartbreaker.’”

  Grandpa snorted. “That sounds like a venereal disease.”

  Ren laughed once. Just once.

  Then his voice dropped again.

  “I’m afraid,” he said.

  Not a whisper. Not a sob.

  A statement. Clear. Real.

  “I’m not afraid of losing. I’m afraid of not being enough. For them. For the ship. For her.”

  He didn’t say who he meant. Rin. Hana. Both.

  The sky. Himself.

  “I fly, and I feel like I’m about to shake loose. And I know I’m supposed to keep it together, but I—what if I’m the weak part?”

  His hands clenched around the rail.

  “I’m tired of trying to be who everyone wants. I just want to be good enough to stay.”

  Silence.

  Then Grandpa sighed. Long and slow.

  “You done?”

  Ren blinked. “What?”

  “Good. That means I can talk now.”

  Scene 4: Grandpa’s Counter

  —-: Ren

  Grandpa rubbed the back of his neck like the words were caught behind the vertebrae.

  Then he said it:

  “You’re not.”

  Ren flinched. “What?”

  “You’re not enough. Not on your own. And thank the sky for that.”

  Ren turned to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Wow. Great pep talk.”

  But Grandpa didn’t look smug. He looked calm. Like this was just a law of mechanics.

  “You think a ship flies because of one part? A crystal engine might hum pretty, but without a ballast system, a tail rudder, and a stabilizer fuse? It’s just a cannonball with delusions.”

  He jabbed a thick finger toward Ren’s chest.

  “You want to fly alone? Fine. Hope you enjoy the crash. But if you stay—if you fly with them—they’ll catch the weight you can’t. That’s what a crew’s for.”

  Ren stared at the steam pipe across from them. The pressure valve gave a tired hiss. A rivet pinged as it cooled.

  “I don’t want to let them down.”

  “You will,” Grandpa said. “Someday, somehow, you will.”

  He folded his arms.

  “And they’ll let you down, too. Because you’re human. The trick ain’t avoiding it. The trick’s trusting you’ll all still be there the next morning.”

  Ren’s shoulders dropped, just a little. The night didn’t feel so tall anymore.

  “But what if I’m not enough for her?”

  Grandpa arched a brow. “Which one?”

  Ren opened his mouth. Closed it.

  Grandpa barked a laugh. “Exactly.”

  He clapped a hand on Ren’s back—rough and heavy.

  “You’re not perfect. You’re a mess. But you’re our mess. So start acting like you belong on that deck.”

  He started for the hatch. Then paused.

  “Oh—and if I see you mope up here again, I’m assigning you to boiler maintenance. Shirtless. In front of the first-years.”

  Ren groaned. “You would.”

  “I have.”

  The hatch slammed shut behind him.

  Ren stayed. One more breath. One more look at the stars.

  And then he smiled—just a little.

  Scene 5: Night Recon — The Cargo Heist

  —-: Jiro

  “Are you sure this counts as recon?” Jiro hissed, crouched behind a steam exhaust vent that reeked of pepper oil and burning brass polish.

  Taiga adjusted his night-vision goggles — which were actually just two tinted monocles strapped together with rubber bands and wishful thinking.

  “If we don’t look,” he whispered back, “how will we know if they’re cheating?”

  Jiro blinked. “And the plan is to… what? Glare at their stabilizer coils until they confess?”

  But Taiga was already moving — ducking beneath the cargo lift gate and rolling into shadow like a theater kid doing espionage.

  They slipped into the Kyokuto Academy supply craft—a lean, silver-plated vessel docked at the outer pad. It looked nothing like the Dart’s chaotic charm. This place gleamed. Like every bolt had been polished by hand and threatened into alignment.

  Inside, rows of sealed crates hummed softly behind crystalline locks. Magnetic hums echoed through the metal like the heartbeat of something precise.

  Jiro found the manifest. “Whoa.”

  “What?”

  “These aren’t just stabilizers. They’ve got—magnetic rail boosters. Auto-recoil dampening systems. Stuff that’s still in testing.”

  Taiga peeked over his shoulder, mouth falling open.

  “They’re not just upgrading,” he whispered. “They’re future-proofing.”

  Jiro stared at one ring — small, thin, but heavy with balanced gravity coils. He ran a finger over the etching. Elegant. Ruthless.

  “This shouldn’t be allowed.”

  Taiga grinned. “Which is why I wanna build one.”

  “Focus.”

  Then came the sound.

  Footsteps. Voices. Two—maybe three—adults.

  Jiro grabbed Taiga’s collar. “Hide. Now.”

  They ducked behind a stack of propulsion cases. Held their breath.

  A voice spoke — crisp, older, clipped by command.

  “Make sure the rail boosters are sealed. I don’t want a repeat of last semester’s malfunction.”

  Another voice — younger, smoother.

  “If they notice?”

  “They won’t. By the time they suspect anything, we’ll already be three points ahead.”

  Then silence.

  Then footsteps… fading.

  Jiro and Taiga exhaled at the same time.

  “Okay,” Jiro whispered, voice high. “We’re definitely telling someone.”

  “Eventually,” Taiga grinned. “After we stop hyperventilating.”

  Scene 6: Caught & Questioned

  —-: Jiro

  The second they dropped from the cargo platform and hit solid ground, Jiro’s pulse tried to punch through his neck.

  “I think we made it,” he gasped.

  Taiga grinned. “Of course we did. We’re legends.”

  “Stop talking.”

  Then the third voice arrived.

  “Legends,” it said smoothly, “usually don’t trip the thermal sensors.”

  They both froze.

  A woman stepped from behind a loading crate—tall, silver-coat sharp, clipboard in hand. Her boots made no sound. Her eyes glinted like cut steel. The Kyokuto liaison officer, if Jiro remembered correctly. Miss Riko Hayashi.

  “Normally,” she said, “this would be grounds for disqualification. Or at the very least, a rather embarrassing note to your headmistress.”

  She stepped closer. Taiga actually tried to shrink.

  “But...” she smiled. Not friendly. Calculated. “You didn’t damage anything. You didn’t steal. And let’s be honest—if you’d really wanted to spy, you’d have worn better goggles.”

  Taiga’s voice squeaked. “They’re experimental.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She walked past them, then stopped, turning on her heel.

  “You’re curious. Ambitious. You’re not afraid to bend the rules for the sake of discovery.” Her gaze flicked to Jiro. “That’s rare.”

  He swallowed. Hard.

  She extended a card. Simple. Lacquered. The Kyokuto insignia gleamed in the corner.

  “When our term ends, we’ll be inviting a few promising students for an observation exchange next season. Your names are already on the short list.”

  Jiro blinked. “Wait. You want us to visit?”

  “Talent,” she said, slipping her clipboard under one arm, “always floats upward.”

  And then she left.

  Just like that.

  Taiga stared after her, jaw slack.

  Jiro stared at the card.

  It was warm in his hand.

  An offer.

  Not punishment.

  Not judgment.

  Just… a door.

  And it was open.

  Scene 7: Final Frame — A Message from the Shadows

  —-: Ren

  Ren had just pulled his boots off when the communicator crystal flickered.

  He froze, half bent over, socked toes cold against the dorm tile.

  New Message Received.

  No sender. No title. Just a pulse of blue across the edge of the screen.

  He sat down slowly.

  Touched the glyph to open it.

  One line. Plain text.

  No flair. No formatting. No digital watermark.

  Just words.

  You won’t survive the next match.

  But your ship might.

  The words stared back like frost on glass.

  His breath caught somewhere between chest and spine.

  There was no signature. No timestamp. Not even a digital trace—just enough of a signature delay to slip past Hinode’s internal tracking systems. Whoever sent it… knew what they were doing.

  He reread it three times.

  Each time, the same two emotions coiled tighter around his ribs:

  Dread.

  And certainty.

  Because whoever they were…

  They weren’t just threatening him.

  They knew the one thing he feared more than crashing.

  They knew how to aim below the armor.

  Ren reached for the kill switch to purge the message—but stopped.

  Instead, he saved it.

  Tucked it in the encrypted folder he didn’t tell anyone about.

  And then?

  He looked out the window.

  Out toward the night sky, where the stars were blinking like distant signals, and the wind outside whispered against the panes like a breath too close to ignore.