“Something wrong?” I ask, voice low.
Crosser shrugs. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’ve got friends poking where they shouldn’t be.”
I freeze. Just enough to feel it.
Then I slam the locker shut and turn. “You wanna accuse me of something, boss, say it loud. Otherwise, I’ve got rust to clean.”
He doesn’t stop me as I walk. Doesn’t have to.
I feel his stare burn through the back of my neck all the way down to my tail.
My next shift grinds by like a bad joint—every motion scraping, every command laced with something unspoken. I keep my head down. My claws stay tight around the fusion spanner, and I barely register the welds I’m making.
But I don’t miss the way Crosser’s shadow lingers too long near the east rail.
Or the way Alric, two bays over, glances at me like I’m about to grow a second head.
Something’s shifted. The questions are circling now. Someone sniffed too close to Feron’s datapath, or maybe a comm log cracked in the wrong place. It doesn’t matter.
They know I’m not just turning bolts anymore.
By the time the buzzer shrieks end-of-shift, my hands are shaking under the gloves.
I wipe them on my pants. Try to act like the grease is what’s making me twitch.
I don’t wait around to chat. Just drop my tools, clock out, and vanish into the yard’s exhaust trails before anyone else can corner me.
But I don’t walk home.
I walk to the shadows.
Because I need to think. And thinking near people right now feels a lot like painting a target on my chest.
CHAPTER 13
KELSEA
Iknow they’re coming before the comms confirm it.
The air changes first—goes thin and sharp, like it’s holding its own breath. Then Bresh starts pacing, not his usual lazy laps, but tight, fast turns like he's coiled and ready to snap. He doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t speak. Just moves like a man waiting to be hit.
That’s when I feel it.
The weight of it pressing through the walls, the floor, the stage itself. The casino’s bright chatter dims beneath it. Music from the main floor skips, then dies. Someone laughs too loud near the card tables. It echoes wrong.
I’m already moving when I hear the front doors hiss open.
Boots. Four sets. Maybe five. Too even. Too clean. They don’t clack like the usual foot traffic in here—they strike. Deliberate. Heavy. Official.
Ceera intercepts me at the hall. “Kels—what the hell?”
I grip her elbow. “Inspectors.”
Her eyes go wide. She nods, doesn’t speak, and bolts down the opposite hall.
