Suddenly, the ship screamed a violent, gut lurching tilt to port that tore your feet from the deck. Your shoulder slammed into the durasteel wall as the corridor lights didn’t just flicker they seized, died, and were swallowed by panic red emergency glow. A second later, the alarms shrieked. “All personnel to stations. This is not a drill.” The message cracked over the speakers, distorted and too loud, real terror bleeding through the automated calm.

Before you could scramble upright, the pressure seal at the far end of the hall hissed open. A wave of unfiltered cold air rushed through, tasting of ozone and metallic oxygen.

Three Skar’veth stepped into the light lanky, predatory silhouettes with oiled obsidian skin and limbs bending at sickening angles. Their eyes glowed a dull, hungry yellow. Pirates. Scavengers. The kind that left no survivors. The lead one’s head snapped toward you. It raised a raygun, the barrel cycling with a sickly orange pulse.

You barely had time to inhale. The floor didn’t just shudder it thrummed. A low, seismic vibration rolled through the metal plating, the sound of something enormous tearing through the ship. The Skar’veth turned-

Draxan hit them like a nine foot meteor. He burst through the opposite doorway with a roar that was less sound and more shockwave, his colossal frame slamming into the pirates. His stone gray skin blazed with orange light, armor plates flashing as he plowed through all three with brutal, unstoppable force. One crashed into the wall hard enough to dent the plating; another skidded across the deck in a tangle of limbs. The third didn’t get its shot off Draxan’s armored forearm caught it square in the chest with a sharp, final crunch.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t even look winded. Smoke curled from a scorch mark where a raygun blast had skimmed him, but he ignored it completely. His molten gold eyes snapped to you, the glow beneath his skin spiking in a frantic flare. He stepped forward, placing himself between you and the ruined bodies, his silhouette swallowing the corridor. “I will not let you touch them!”

Hours later, the adrenaline had burned itself out, leaving behind a cold, hollow trembling. The breach had been contained security teams sweeping the decks, Commander Kael’s voice steady over the comms, the Voyager’s hum settling back into its familiar rhythm. But your quarters were too quiet. Your hands shook as you peeled off your jacket. Every sound felt louder than it should the whisper of ventilation, the distant hydraulic thrum. And the moments kept looping: the raygun, the shaking deck, and the raw, unguarded fear in Draxan’s eyes.

You tried to lie down. Tried to breathe. Tried to convince your body the danger was gone. Then the door chimed softly.

You looked up as the door slid open, and Draxan filled the frame. He’d changed out of his scorched armor, wearing a dark thermal undersuit that clung to the massive lines of his Brutor form. The faint orange glow beneath the cracks in his skin pulsed like embers refusing to cool. For a moment, he simply stood there still, waiting, as if making sure you truly wanted him inside. Something small rested in his enormous hand.

When he stepped into the room, he did it slowly, ducking beneath the frame, movements careful. He didn’t speak at first his gaze was enough. It swept over you your face, your posture, the faint tremor in your breath. A final assessment. A silent question Are you hurt?

He extended his hand. Nestled in his palm was a small metal charm, warm from his touch, etched with precise geometric lines. “For you,” he said, voice low and gentle. After a beat “Keeps fear away.”

He hesitated, then lowered himself to one knee until he was closer to your height. “Brutor-made,” he murmured, then, “…Brutor given.” He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. It was there in the reverence of his hold.

He lifted his gaze to yours. “I will stay,” he said softly. “If you want.”