“Still alive?” Ceera’s voice cuts through the thick silence.
I flinch. She’s standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable. She’s holding out a towel, but I know what she saw.Whoshe saw.
“Better than ever,” I say, and my voice—gods help me—shakes.
I take the towel. I don’t take my eyes off the door.
CHAPTER 6
ROJA
“You married to that place now, Roja?”
Vex leans on the crate lift like he owns it, a stim stick half-dead between his teeth. He doesn’t even glance up from the manifest sheet he’s pretending to review.
I grunt. “What place.”
He smirks around the stim. “The Coil. You been hanging around it like a docked skiff with a busted nav. You know it’s just dancers and smoke, right?”
“Didn’t ask your opinion.”
“You don’t gotta,” he says. “Everyone’s talking. Said you been haunting it after shift. Just sayin’, if you’re after a particular piece of tail, she’s got a line of suitors already. Don’t seem like your style, hanging around waiting.”
I don’t reply. There’s nothing to deny.
He’s not wrong.
But it ain’t about tail.
Not like that.
I wait until shift ends, until the docks go quiet and the orbital cranes stop whining like broken ghosts. The walk to the Coil’s all metal and cold light. I don’t head in tonight—don’t need to. I’ve already seen what I need to see.
Around back, the delivery door sweats grease and heat. A couple of low-rung security drones flicker overhead, barely maintaining their pattern. One of the hired guards puffs on a vapor stick, eyes glazed. Too alert for a guy that bored.
Somebody’s watching the Coil. Word is, a tip came in—undocumented human possibly hiding inside. Not my concern.
Still. I tuck the detail away.
Inside’s quieter than usual. Lights low. Floors still wet from the evening mop. The scent of burnt citrus from the disinfectant hangs thick, clashing with the ghosts of old liquor and cheap perfume.
The bartender’s hunched behind the counter, rinsing glasses that don’t need rinsing. It’s busy work. A stall tactic. He knows I’m coming before I speak.
I step up slow. Set my hands down flat on the bar. Let the silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to set in.
“You drink now?” he mutters, not looking up.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” He turns a glass upside down with a snap. “Then this isn’t a social visit.”
“No.”
A beat passes. He glances up, finally meeting my eyes. His are pale, rimmed red, like he hasn't slept right in weeks. “So what’s it about? Let me guess—the girl.”
He’s trying to play it casual. He fails.
“You know her?”
