Iwake to stillness. Absolute blackness pressed against my eyelids. My breath comes shallow, ragged, like I’m diving through vacuum. I reach to rub my ribs—pain is a burning brandy that spreads beneath my skin. My hands are bound by cold metal cuffs; my wrists sting with every throb.
The air tastes like iron and machinery—stale, metallic, fear-lined. I draw in a sharp breath and realize I can’t see. Just echoes of distant electronic hums and the beat of my own heartbeat.
I sit up slow, arms shaking. My side protests. I swallow past the spasm. Find my voice, though it trembles. “Hello?”
The reply is laughter—mocking, low, collective. Lights flicker on. I squint: a narrow chamber aboard a decrepit orbital station, windowless walls chewed by rust and neglect. Oil stains bloom on the floor like black lilies.
Three Nar’Vosk men stand over me. One tall, with a hunter’s face and a cold smile. Another shorter, cruel, fingering a plasma pistol. The captain—Leori—is the last, leaning back with arms crossed, eyes cruel.
“Well, look what the galaxy spat out,” the hunter says. His holo-bracelet flashes a junkie’s pulse. Behind him, a video feed shows Aebon pacing angry lines in a transit bay.
Leori chuckles. “Reaper isn’t so infallible now, is he? Dragging his little prosecutor wife into his wounds.”
I clench my jaw. Fear scythes through me, but I swallow it. I’ve learned to study fear, notbeit. Their arrogance betrays uncertainty.
A man leans forward, feet crackling on broken tiles. “We’re circulating this video to every frickin’ crim-net in the black market. Auction’s open. Bidders include GalRem—it’s going to get ugly.”
I study his posture—his feet lead, weight forward. He’s ready to run if I react. I don’t.
They laugh. I force a soft smile. “You think Aebon will pay a price for me?”
Their predatory eyes flicker. They think I’m broken. They’re wrong.
I shift to feel around and discover I’m strapped to a hover-bed that hovers inches above the floor, rails on both sides. Spacing is slim. I can’t pivot much, but I notice a loose panel near my feet. A screw missing. Small, but significant.
“Tell him,” I say softly, “tell Aebon I’m not salvageable. I’m a weapon. He’ll lose more than he thinks if he comes unprepared.”
They blink. Surprise has made them careless.
The tall one laughs. “You’ve got spirit. But we’ve got muscle.”
I meet his gaze. “Muscle alone doesn’t win wars. Calculated strikes do.” I pause—let the words settle.
They don’t flinch. Yet.
Leori leans closer. I smell his cheap tobacco. “You’re smart. Maybe too smart.”
My pulse steadies. I hope he doesn’t notice.
He gives a slow nod. “You’ll witness Aebon’s downfall. Promise.”
Their laughter echoes as they leave. The door seals behind them with a hiss.
The silence returns. My ribs burn. My wrists ache. Fear is still there, but I’m focusing on the panel, the missing screw, the hinge on the opposite side.
There’s always a way.
Minutes—or hours—tick past. My pulse quiets, mind sharpens. I can hear the station’s life sign: the hum of twisted generators, a distant whine of depressurized air through a vent. I imagine the station: an abandoned carcass orbiting too close to dying station cores. Lights flicker like old memories.
I close my eyes and breathe slow. Catalog the chamber: six meters long, two wide, sealed. Maybe two captors at a time, armed. Windows sealed by heavy plates. No camera—just the feed pointed at me.
I weigh options: break panel, reach tunnel behind, slither cables, disable a guard. It’s tight, but possible.
Fear flares when I picture the trade, the darkness, the cost.
But fury drowns it.
I shift again, trying to loosen the straps—stiff old bonds, but there’s give across the back. My ribs scream, but there’s a click: the cuff pin gives. Not enough to slip free, but enough to ease my wrist. I grin in the dark.
