[b]Chapter 3 – They Never Gave Me a Name[/b]

[i]*He eats. He listens. He almost speaks. And when he finally does, the word is not a scream or a plea—it’s an absence. Delta brings meat and memories. The fox offers silence. And then? A beginning.*[/i]

The silence dragged.

Eventually, the wall sealed behind the Rottweiler, leaving the fox alone once more—no chains, no noise, no commands.

Just him.

And the room.

It took him nearly ten minutes to move from the corner. He didn’t trust it—none of it. The floor was too smooth. The lights too even. The air didn’t even smell real. He pressed his claws against the wall—no give. No seams. Not even the echo of a hollow place behind it. Wherever he was, he wasn't getting out.

So he began to pace.

Small circles at first. Testing the ground, the air, the places the scent changed—where the incense thinned, where the faint hum of the ship’s systems grew stronger. There was nothing to hide behind. Nowhere to run. The bed sat like an island in a clean, white ocean. A small table stood beside it, bolted into the floor, bearing nothing but the now-extinguished dish of incense.

He approached that last.

Sniffed it.

Still warm.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, eyes on the spot where the wall had become a door. His ears stayed trained on the silence, waiting for footsteps that didn’t come.

Time blurred. There were no windows, no shadows to track.

When the wall finally parted again, the sudden shift in sound and pressure was like a slap. The fox’s head snapped up. He was already halfway to his feet when the scent hit him.

Not the Rottweiler.

The food.

The growl that began in his chest wilted, crumbled into silence as his nostrils flared.

It was meat.

Fresh. Cooked. Real. Not gristle boiled in rot or cold strips flung in his direction like bait. He could smell the char—just a kiss of flame on fat. He could smell salt, pepper, even the ghost of something green—herbs, maybe. His eyes locked on the tray the Rottweiler carried, a stainless dome covering whatever treasure lay beneath.

His mouth watered so suddenly it hurt.

The Rottweiler didn’t even bother hiding the grin that crept across his muzzle as he stepped inside.

“Yeah,” he said, setting the tray down on the table with a casual thump. “That’s about right.”

The fox’s eyes stayed on the tray.

He licked his lips once, slow and involuntary, and immediately hated himself for it.

The fox didn’t move.

Not an inch. Not a twitch.

His body stayed locked in place, every muscle coiled with tension, as if movement alone would cost him something he couldn’t afford. But his eyes—his eyes were riveted to the tray. The dome still in place. Steam curled faintly from beneath it, wafting those maddening tendrils of roasted meat and bone and fat to the back of his throat.

He didn’t look at the Rottweiler directly. Just enough to track him.

The big dog set the tray on the table, then dropped himself into the chair beside it with a grunt. His posture was casual, but not careless—he didn’t forget what sat in the corner of the room. One eye stayed loosely on the fox, even as he reached to his hip and unfastened a tactical blade from its sheath.

The knife snapped open with a metallic flick, a sound too sharp, too aggressive for the calm around them.

He lifted the dome with one hand.

The smell exploded.

A thick slab of seared meat sat on a plate, still steaming—marbled, dripping with juices, the kind of cut no slave had ever even seen, let alone tasted. A smaller side of roast tubers accompanied it, but neither of them mattered. The scent of the protein blotted out the rest of the room.

The Rottweiler stabbed the meat with the fork. With the knife—his knife—he sliced off a thick, fatty piece and popped it into his mouth.

He leaned back, letting his head roll back with a theatrical groan.

“Ohhh, fuck yeah,” he said, chewing slow. “That’s the good shit.”

He patted his stomach with one large hand, tongue flicking over his teeth. Then he cut another piece. This time, he didn’t eat it. He just let it sit on the plate.

And pushed it toward the fox.

The sound of the plate sliding across the polished table was soft, but it scraped across the fox’s spine like a live wire.

Then the dog did something the fox did not expect.

He flipped the knife in his hand and offered it—hilt first—toward the fox.

No tricks.

Just the knife. And the food.

A silent message: Eat. If you want. If you dare. Hell, stab me with it. Let’s find out what kind of animal you are.

The room held its breath.

So did the fox.

He didn’t snarl. Didn’t growl.

But his tail flicked once behind him. A snap of restrained instinct.

The Rottweiler’s brow lifted, just slightly.

He said nothing.

He didn’t have to.

The choice was the only sound in the room now.

The knife hovered in the air, hilt-first, glinting softly in the filtered light.

The fox stared at it.

He knew what it was. What it meant.

Not just a tool. Not just a gift. It was a test.

A weapon offered freely. A leash made invisible. Take it, and he proved he was still dangerous. Take it, and maybe they’d chain him tighter. Or maybe they'd never trust him again.

And worse: maybe they would.

His eyes lifted slowly to the dog.

Too big. Broad in the shoulders. Dense with muscle that didn’t move lazily, but efficiently. Purposefully. The kind of body that didn’t flinch from a fight. The kind of male who’d won too many already.

The knife wouldn’t be enough.

Not here.

Not yet.

The fox leaned forward—but not for the weapon.

His paw darted out, quick and precise, and snatched the piece of meat from the plate with two fingers and a thumb. He didn’t linger. Didn’t test boundaries. Just took it, retreated, and curled back into the corner of the bed like a flame pulled inward against wind.

He huddled there, knees drawn to his chest, the food cradled in both paws like stolen treasure. His eyes never left the Rottweiler—not even when his teeth sank into the meat.

He growled as he ate.

Low. Quiet. The kind of sound meant for the back of a throat, the base of the soul. Not a threat.

A warning.

Mine.

The Rottweiler let out a soft chuckle, finally setting the knife down on the table with a clack. He leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head, watching the fox devour the food like a starved thing from a distant world.

“Yeah,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “You’re gonna be real fuckin’ interesting.”

The fox gnawed like a thing starved. Because he was.

Each bite was fast, desperate, but measured—he wasn’t wasting this. He wasn’t sure if there’d be another. And he never stopped watching the Rottweiler, who remained exactly where he was, arms folded tight across his broad chest, leaning against the wall like he belonged there.

Like he always would.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched.

Let the fox eat. Let the silence hold.

Then, finally, he sighed and spoke—softly. Not like a man giving orders, but like someone remembering an old scar.

“My name’s Gordon,” he said.

The fox’s ears flicked once.

“Fucking Gordon,” the Rottweiler added with a snort. “Who names a goddamn Rottweiler tank of a pup Gordon, right?”

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging one corner of his muzzle. “Should’ve been Crusher. Or Warhound. Something with bite. But nope. Gordon. Sounds like I should be managing cargo manifests in a desk chair on Gamma-3.”

The fox kept chewing. Slower now.

Not out of calm.

Just listening.

Gordon—Delta—watched him for a moment longer, then let out a quiet breath and pushed off the wall. He stepped over to the chair, flipped it backward, and straddled it with a grunt as he settled in, arms crossed on the top rail.

“You can call me Delta, though,” he said, voice still low. “My old call sign. Back before my knee started givin’ me trouble. Couldn’t punch the accelerator to the floor at sixteen Gs anymore without blackin’ out or pissin’ blood.”

He tapped the side of his knee with one thick finger. “Got synthetic ligaments now. Not quite standard issue, but enough to keep me upright. Not enough to fly. So now I wrangle angry omegas with a chip on their shoulder and a mouth full of murder.”

His gaze flicked to the fox—direct, but not aggressive. Curious, maybe. Or just tired.

“Like you.”

The fox didn’t snarl this time.

He just kept eating.

But slower.

His jaw worked methodically. His tongue licked a drop of juice from his paw.

And his ears—traitorous, twitching things—tilted just slightly toward the Rottweiler’s voice.

The silence held.

Delta didn’t push. He just sat there, straddling the chair, watching the fox tear through the last of the meat with something that wasn’t quite pity. More like... recognition.

The fox licked the grease from his paws with slow, deliberate motions, his eyes lowered but not unfocused. Every now and then he’d flick a glance toward the Rottweiler, brief and unreadable. Measuring. Gauging. But still mute.

Delta didn’t try again. No more stories. No more names.

Eventually, the plate sat empty.

The fox pulled his legs tighter beneath him, curling his tail protectively around one side. The growl had gone quiet, swallowed by hunger, but tension still hung in the room like static.

Delta gave it a beat.

Then smacked both palms on his thighs and stood with a grunt. “Welp…” he muttered, rotating one shoulder with a pop. “I’ll leave you be. Let some of that plasma vent off before you melt a hole through the mattress.”

He made his way to the wall, which once again breathed open, the seamless panel parting into a soft-angled doorway with a faint hiss of shifting pressure.

He stepped into the threshold.

And paused.

Because behind him, from the direction of the bed, came a voice.

Small. Unsteady. Cracked like an old bone finally breaking clean.

“I…”

Delta turned, half-frozen.

The fox didn’t look at him. Didn’t even lift his head. He sat hunched, arms wrapped around his legs, ears drooping low. His voice was barely audible, but the translator patch made sure it hit with perfect clarity.

“They never gave me a name.”

Silence bloomed in the doorway.

The fox’s eyes flicked up, just once. Then down again. As if ashamed of what he’d said. Or terrified of what it meant to have said anything at all.

Delta stood there for a long moment.

Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Figured.”

He didn't say anything else. Just stepped through the door, and let the wall seal behind him with a quiet hum.

But the fox wasn’t alone in the silence anymore.

Now the silence knew him.