“Torren worked in maintenance. Level 15. Never took so much as a spare bolt in five years.” Krave's claws flexed, scraping a long line of paint from the wall. “Different departments, different surnames. Qeth didn't even know Torren was my brother. Just saw someone he thought was betraying him.”
“Why stay?”
“Fifty other beings depend on this place for survival. Chaos helps no one.” His yellow eyes fixed on mine. “Besides, I'm not a murderer, despite what my species suggests.”
I respected that. “He's using me as bait.”
“He's desperate enough to try anything. Including using you as bait for your crew.” Krave moved toward the lift. “The Sovereign's Hand. He talks about them when the enhancers wear off. Yesterday he forgot Torren was dead. Ordered his execution again. Stood there screaming at me to find him and bring him to justice.”
The lift doors opened. He stepped inside, then looked back.
“Whatever you're planning, Vinduthi, remember—some of us are just trying to survive.”
The doors closed between us.
Early fourth shift. Sabine's table was quieter than usual—two Lyrikans playing conservative, an elderly human woman chasing a straight flush she'd never catch. I sat in my usual seat, placed my usual bet. Fifteen thousand, our pattern.
Sabine dealt my cards, fingers steady, expression professionally neutral. But I caught the tension in her shoulders, the way she touched her neck—her tell when something was wrong.
“Ladies, gentlemen, distinguished guests.” Qeth's voice cut through the ambient noise.
He stood three feet from the table. I hadn't heard him approach. Beside him, two guards flanked a respectful distance back. His copper eyes were too bright, pupils dilated. Recent dose. Sharp window.
“Administrator.” Sabine's voice stayed steady. “How may I assist you?”
He moved closer to her, those six-fingered hands spreading on the table's edge. “You're quite skilled, my dear. Mathematical precision in every deal. Every calculation.”
She didn't retreat. Didn't flinch. “Thank you, sir.”
“I could use someone with your talents in a more... permanent position.” His sensory filaments oriented toward her, tasting her scent, her fear. “As my personal probability calculator.”
The words sent ice through my veins.
“I'm honored, sir, but my contract?—”
“Contracts can be... renegotiated.” His copper eyes never left her face. “Humans are so much more manageable than failing algorithms. More reliable. More... controllable.”
My fangs extended. Not slightly. Fully. The other players noticed, chairs scraping as they leaned away.
“The house requires her at the tables,” I said, voice too calm. “She's the best dealer you have.”
Qeth's attention shifted to me, and for a moment, clarity flickered in his eyes. Recognition. Knowledge. Then it was gone, replaced by that bright, artificial focus.
“Mr. Varrick. Still losing money at my tables, I see.”
“Still learning the patterns.”
“Patterns.” He laughed, but the sound was uneven, cracking in the middle. “Yes, patterns. They're everywhere, aren't they? In the cards. In the algorithms. In the walls.” His voice dropped. “In the betrayals.”
The guards shifted nervously.
“Enjoy your game,” Qeth said suddenly, stepping back from Sabine. His fingers traced a complex pattern in the air—a calculation, maybe, or just neural misfiring. “Both of you. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
He walked away, guards trailing. The moment he was gone, the other players cashed out. The Lyrikans didn't even count their chips. The elderly woman muttered something about finding a different table. Within minutes, we were alone.
“Observation deck,” I said, standing. “Now.”
Sabine didn't argue.
