Thomas stood there for a moment, the jazz-like music washing over him. On Earth, he had always been the observer, the man standing in the corner of the room watching for exits and analysing the crowd. He never danced, never laughed too loudly, and never let his guard down. But here, under the alien stars of a world that wanted him dead or forgotten, something shifted.
The "scaredy-cat" mask he wore for the SA wasn't necessary here. For the first time in two lives, Thomas didn't look for the exit.
For one night, the detective was dead, and Thomas was simply a man. He laughed until his chest ached, danced with a rhythmic clumsiness that made Tara howl with delight, and swapped stories with the local shopkeepers.
He learned that the man who sold him spices had a daughter studying to be a healer, and the baker was a former low-rank superhero who had retired after losing a finger to a stray kinetic blast.
