Reapers are already mobilizing, snarls and roars filling the air. The scent of blood floods the breeze—hot, sharp, metallic. Kallus grabs my arm, shoves a blade into my hand.
“You run. If they get close,you run.”
“No,” I choke. “I stay with you.”
His red eyes blaze. “Not this time.”
I want to argue. But the look on his face freezes my heart.
The door to the chamber explodes inward.
They’re here.
Black armor. Visors glowing. IHC elite. Two of them move fast—too fast—snagging Kallus in a net charged with white-hot energy. He roars, ripping it apart, but it slows him just long enough.
I bolt.
Down the back hall, through the auxiliary passage I saw on the maps. My bare feet slip on the stone, heartbeat pounding in my ears. Another explosion. I flinch, duck, run harder.
A hand grabs me.
I scream—kick back—connect with something metal. But another hand closes around my wrist.
“Target acquired!” someone yells. “Noble cargo secure!”
A syringe jabs into my neck.
The world tilts.
And everything goes dark.
I come back to myself in pieces.
First, the ache. A deep, chemical ache behind my eyes, like someone stuffed cotton and broken glass into my skull and then shook it. My tongue feels thick, useless. My mouth tastes like antiseptic and metal.
Then the cold.
Not jungle-cool. Not stone-cool. This is clinical—air scrubbed of scent, temperature dialed to a setting that doesn’t care about comfort. My skin prickles, nipples tightening painfully against fabric that isn’t mine.
I try to move.
Pain lances through my wrists.
That’s when panic hits.
My eyes snap open.
White. Everywhere. Walls, ceiling, floor—gleaming, seamless white panels that reflect light so brightly it feels like I’m beinginterrogated by the room itself. The air hums softly, a constant vibration that settles into my bones.
Orbit.
I know this feeling. Artificial gravity just a hair too perfect. No sway. No breath of a world beneath it.
I’m on a ship.
“No,” I croak. My voice comes out shredded. Wrong. Too small for the scream building in my chest.
I tug at my arms.
