Glimner always smells like rot this time of cycle—steam vents belching sulfur, oil seeping through cracked stone, too many lives stacked on top of each other with nowhere to breathe. It's a city built sideways, corners and catwalks folding like blades, shadows slipping where law can’t reach.
Which makes it perfect for war.
I grip the rail of the drop ramp as the Redscale ship levels out above the cartel stronghold. It's not much—just an old processing plant welded into a canyon wall—but the intel says it’s crawling with League foot soldiers and their smug little boss.
“You want loud or surgical?” Garkin asks, voice flat, already loading a charge cell into his rifle.
“Both,” I mutter. “Fast.”
We drop.
The air is thick when we land—heavy with copper and static. No time to think. We move like liquid, muscle memory and instinct, the way we trained back in the burning moons of Arkon-9. We’re ghosts sliding through rusted corridors. No warnings. No grace.
I take the first pair clean—throats split, bodies dropped before their hands even reach the triggers.
The third one raises an alarm. Garkin silences him with a pulse shot to the temple.
“Eight more heat signatures behind the coolant line,” Kess hisses in my ear.
“Flush them.”
She tosses a sonic charge. The wall hums, then bursts—steam and screams and scrambling boots. I’m already inside.
The room turns red.
I don’t remember the next few minutes.
I’m a blur.
A storm.
Claws unsheathed, plasma blade humming low and hungry. One after another—they come at me. I let them. Broken noses. Severed tendons. A rib cracks under my heel. Someone begs. Someone shoots.
I don’t miss.
One clean strike at a time, I carve through their defense like I’m slicing guilt from my own skin.
Garkin’s voice crackles. “Boss room. Third level. He’s still in there.”
I take the stairs two at a time. My legs burn. My vision pulses.
And still, I move.
The door slides open with a hiss.
He’s waiting.
Tilkan. Tall, smug, dressed like power. Mind-sling tech looped around his temples, fingers steepled in mock serenity. I can already feel the tingle behind my eyes—the first pull of psychic manipulation.
“You’re late,” he says.
I don’t answer.
“Did you bring the boy?” His grin widens. “Oh—wait. No. You left him tucked in, didn’t you? So sweet. How domestic.”
I lunge.
He tries to fire.
