It’s quiet inside. Still smells like garlic noodles and cheap soap. I kick off my boots and drop my bag beside the door, flick the lights on with the back of my hand. The panel stutters once, then glows dull amber. Good enough.
The noodles are still on the counter from last night. Cold. Clumped. I don’t bother reheating them. Just grab the bowl, a pair of chopsticks, and collapse onto the threadbare sofa. The springs wheeze under my weight.
I flip on the wall screen with a knuckle and scroll the feed with one hand while shoving noodles in my mouth with the other.
Coalition talking heads scream about tariffs. Some smug prick with a pinched face insists the Alliance is baiting border skirmishes. Another segment shows a leaked drone clip of some riot offworld. Too much noise. None of it close enough to matter. I thumb the volume down until their mouths move without sound.
The noodles taste like paste. I chew anyway.
Then the yelling starts.
I freeze, mid-bite. Voices echo up from the alley behind my building—sharp, angry. One male. One deeper. Authority voice. Coalition security or hired casino muscle. Someone’s in trouble.
I set the bowl down and creep to the window, peeling back the edge of the curtain with two fingers.
There, down in the alley, lit by the flickering lamp over the waste chute—him.
Green-scaled. Tall. Massive. The Grolgath from the corridor. He’s squared up to one of the security officers, talking low but firm. The other guy’s waving his hands, pissed about something. I can’t hear the words, but the posture’s clear. Not friends. Not casual.
I press my fingers to the wall beside the window, grounding myself. My heart’s thumping again. Fast.
The Grolgath doesn’t shove the guy. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands his ground, arms loose at his sides, like he’s waiting for the other man to make a mistake.
Then something shifts. The security guy backs down. Not by much, but enough. He points down the alley and mutters something, then peels off toward the street.
The green-scaled male stays behind.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at the ground like he’s thinking. Then—he lifts his head.
Right at me.
I snap back from the window, heart slamming into my ribs. I don’t know if he saw me. Maybe the curtain moved. Maybe he caught the reflection. Doesn’t matter.
I drop to the floor and crawl back to the couch, chest heaving. Sit there. Still. Listen to the hum of my own breathing.
He was watching the building.
I don’t like coincidences. Never have. And I especially don’t like men who show up twice in one night with that kind of stare.
I go to the sink, splash cold water on my face, then lean both hands on the counter, palms flat. Stare at myself in the streaked mirror. I don’t look scared. I look tired. Too many nights like this. Too many almosts.
I dry off, head back to the couch, and kill the newsfeed. The screen goes black.
My fingers drum against my thigh. Fast. Unsettled.
I don’t sleep yet.
I wait until the shadows outside my window shift again.
CHAPTER 3
KELSEA
Ceera corners me in the break room before I can even grab a clean towel. Her eyes are already glassy from whatever she’s been huffing, and the stim hanging from her bottom lip burns low, the end flaring with every hissy inhale.
“You hear about the sweep?” she asks, voice low but conspiratorial. Her tone’s always like that, like she knows something you don’t and she’s just dying to let it slip. She smells like skin oil and rose sweat, with a tang of citrus cleanser from the stage disinfectant. “Out by the starport. Word is two units, real tight net.”
My shoulders lock up before I can stop them.
