The language of predators.
Then I notice someone.
A human woman—tucked off to the side near the rec corner, where the smoke curls looser and the lighting’s got that yellow edge like an interrogation booth trying to flirt. She’s playing darts, and it’s not the game that catches me. It’s theprecision.
She throws like it’s business.
Not flash, not bar-crowd hustle. No pump-fake gestures or overly theatrical aim. Just lift, flick, hit. Dead center. Dead center. Dead center.
Every single time.
She moves like someone who doesn’tneedto impress. Like every part of her body already knows where it’s going and why. Her grip is relaxed. Her feet are planted like she’s usedto standing her ground. Her eyes? Focused—not on the people around her, not on the attention she’s drawing—but on the board. The mark. The target.
That says discipline.
That says training.
But it doesn’t say Butcher.
Not yet.
Because the galaxy’s full of people who can throw a dart and still die stupid.
I clock it. File it away.
Mark her asinteresting but unlikely.
She could be ex-military. Or just ex-someone. The kind of woman who left the wrong place with the right skill set and nowhere to put it anymore. She doesn’t wear armor, doesn’t carry herself like she’s spoiling for a fight, but there’s something in the economy of her motion that sets my instincts humming.
She wins. Quietly. Doesn’t crow about it. Her opponent—a rail-thin Bolari with more tattoos than brain cells—grumbles, offers a rematch, and she just nods once and resets the darts.
I turn away.
Back to the bar.
Don’t need to let curiosity get in the way of clarity.
The bartender’s still there—piercings gleaming, arms folded, jaw working like she’s chewing gum or threats.
“You again,” she mutters.
“Me still,” I correct, sliding back into my seat.
She nods toward the dance floor. “You find what you’re looking for out there?”
“Still looking.”
She pulls a glass. “Same poison?”
“Stronger.”
She grins without smiling and pours something dark and opaque. It hisses when it settles, like it’s trying to tell me secrets. I take it without asking what it is.
It tastes like regret dipped in engine grease. Good vintage.
I stay still.
That’s the trick.
