CHAPTER 1
ROJA
The hiss of the torch is the only voice I trust.
Blue flame arcs across the panel, spitting sparks as I guide the bead along the seam. The metal hums beneath my gloves, vibrating through the weld bench and up into my arms. I lean in, shielding my eyes behind the visor, one breath at a time, slow and steady.
Outside, rain drums against the shipyard dome. Soft now, almost a whisper. In ten minutes, it’ll roar like gunfire.
I finish the last pass, kill the torch, and let the silence settle. The others are already clocking out—some dragging their boots, some talking too loud. Too many bodies. Too much heat. I strip the gloves and let them hang on the rack. My shift’s done. Should’ve headed home an hour ago.
But Kaslo still owes me.
The bastard's good for credits, just slow. Two weeks back, he bet against me in a mech duel pool—ran his mouth, laughed when I won, and didn’t pay. Now he’s late again. And I’m tired of asking.
He’s at the Coil tonight. Figures. The Crimson Coil pulls every drunk, degenerate, and off-duty scab from the docks andhalf the underlevels. I hate it. Music’s too loud, lights too sharp. Whole place stinks like desperation in a perfume bottle.
But I want my money.
I cut across Dockline South, steam hissing up through the grates, rain slicking the cobblestones. My coat’s already soaked by the time I get to the neon sign. ‘CRIMSON COIL’ buzzes overhead, half the letters flickering. I nod at the bouncer—he recognizes me but doesn’t say shit. Smart.
Inside, heat hits me like a punch. Smell too—sweat, synth-smoke, alcohol, something sweet and wrong like fruit turned sour. I roll my shoulders and make a pass through the main bar, eyes scanning. No sign of Kaslo near the front.
The stage lights pulse to some thudding rhythm—bass deep enough to crack ribs. I push through the crowd, ignoring elbows, drinks, giggles. Someone brushes my arm, then backs off quick. Good.
I catch sight of Kaslo near the raised pit. He’s slouched, drink in hand, mouth open like a slack-jawed idiot. Laughing at something. Or someone.
I move left, trying to close the distance.
Then the lights change.
Not brighter—sharper. Red and gold. Flame.
I don’t mean to look. But I do.
She steps onto the stage like she’s carved from light and smoke. Flame kisses her skin and clings to her hips, twisting around her legs like it was born there. Her outfit—if you can call it that—is little more than glinting strips of shimmer mesh, revealing curves that don’t move, they roll—like liquid heat, like temptation shaped by hand.
And her face.
Calm. Not painted in fake joy or baited lust. It’s still. Centered. Powerful in a way I don’t have words for. Like she’snot performing—she’s commanding. A goddess standing in the center of her flame-prayer.
She spins, and the fire lifts with her like it’s begging to touch more of her. Every movement sends the light chasing across her skin. The soft dip of her waist. The long muscle of her thigh. The hard line of her shoulders. It should look choreographed, but it doesn’t. It looks born. Like she doesn’t follow the fire—it follows her.
And I can’t move.
My breath comes short, sudden. My fingers twitch at my sides. There’s a sound in my chest I haven’t heard in years. A cracking. A pull.
I don’t just want her. I need to know her. I need to know what broke her to make her this strong.
Something in me stirs. Wakes up. Like I’ve been walking through fog since I left the kill list behind. Like this woman—this dancer cloaked in heat and defiance—is the first real thing I’ve seen in a long, long time.
She flips the fire into a wheel and ducks beneath it, arching her back, chest rising, sweat trailing the curve of her stomach. Every part of her screams danger, and I want it anyway. Not for a night. Not to conquer. To claim.
Her eyes skim the crowd but never stop on any one face. She’s measuring. Calculating. She’s not here to be seen—she’s here to survive.
And gods help me, I want to be the one she doesn’t have to run from.
I forget Kaslo. Forget the credits. Forget why I came. I just watch her move, pulse ticking like a metronome under my skin, and think:
