CHAPTER 1
VROK
Syfer Station greets me like a bad habit—warm in all the wrong ways, a stink that clings to skin, and the unmistakable sense that if you're not looking over your shoulder, you’re already prey.
The recycled air tastes faintly of machine oil and cheap smoke. It's got that burn to it, like someone tried to filter despair and failed. Lights overhead flicker with that terminal buzz—the kind that makes even innocent faces look like they’ve got warrants. Everything hums here. Not friendly, not welcoming. Just... loaded. Like the whole station's holding its breath, waiting for someone to twitch wrong so it can exhale violence.
I shift my weight as I stride through the main concourse, boots heavy on grimed deck plates. I'm too big for this space, always have been. Seven-foot-two of red-scaled Vakutan muscle doesn't exactly whisperharmless.I know what people see—hell, Ibuiltwhat they see. Shoulders like bulkheads, arms lined with battle scars that weren't stitched pretty, a jaw made for biting more than talking. My golden eyes track every flicker of motion, every twitch, every sudden stillness. Predator’s habits. They never leave you. Especially after what I’ve seen. Especially after Horus IV.
A pair of humans pretending not to stare nearly trip over each other trying to clear a path.
I don’t acknowledge them. Let the myth breathe.
I pass a storefront—plasteel window smeared with soot and desperation. My reflection stares back, distorted and jagged. The jagged part’s accurate.
I keep moving. I’ve got a list of fixers, most of them reluctant, some of them gutless. One or two might have the nerve to talk. All of them know who I am.
That’s the problem.
I knock on the first office, a flimsy sliding door with peeling holo-lettering that promises “Opportunities” like it’s a brand of snack cake. The door scans me, pauses, and doesn’t open. Subtle.
“Tryin’ the polite route,” I mutter to myself. “Cute.”
I hit the buzzer again. Louder.
The speaker cracks. “We’re closed.”
“It’s mid-shift,” I growl. “And your ‘closed’ sign’s on a loop.”
A pause. Then static. Then, “We don’t hire... contractors like you.”
Like me. Right.
I lean in close, let my voice drop low and slow, just to see if I can make him piss himself through the intercom. “If I was here to kill you, you’d already be pieces.”
Another pause. This one longer.
Then nothing.
I back away from the door, not because I’m done—but because I’m not stupid. There’s a camera behind that soot-glass. No sense in earning a station ban for pounding some fixer’s face through his console.
Another rejection, logged and counted.
This is how it’s been for three straight days.
Everywhere I go, doors shut before I knock. Eyes slide off me like I’m a smear they’re hoping someone else will clean up. My reputation hits the room first—like a slap or a scream or a gunshot. Doesn’t matter which. It does the job.
I used to think fear was a tool.
Now it feels like a wall.
I hit three more spots, each one colder than the last. I’m running out of leads, patience, and the kind of currency that buys second chances. Mercenary work used to be simple—problem, weapon, solution. But the problem now is me.
They all know my name. NotVrok—not really. They know the Collateral King. The Berserker. Thatasshole.The one who charges first and explains with blood. The one who turned Horus IV into a massacre and made survival look like a curse.
I earned the name. But I didn’t ask for the fallout.
I don’t even know what I want anymore, except to matter. And maybe bleed for something that means more than just not dying.
