I lean on the edge of his desk—just enough pressure to make the surface groan under my weight.
“Why?” I ask.
His brow ridge twitches. “Why what?”
“Why not me? Why not this time?”
He barks a laugh—sharp, mean, unfiltered.
“Last time I hired you,” he says, pointing the lit end of his cigar like an accusation, “you ate a guy.”
“There were mitigating circumstances.”
His eyes widen like I just suggested sunshine is a side effect of explosives. “How could there possibly be mitigating—” Hestops himself, squeezes the bridge of his snout, and groans. “Never mind. No jobs for you, Vrok. Try the arena. Maybe they’ll let you hit something until it stops breathing.”
“I’m not leaving Syfer.”
That makes him go still.
“I’ll keep asking. I’ll keep knocking. I’ll keep haunting every fixer on this station until someone gives me something to do. You think your reputation suffers now? Wait ‘til the mercs start whispering that Don Gnotz’s turf is where the Berserker prowls, bored and broke.”
He doesn’t blink, but his jaw shifts—just a little.
I press. “Give me a reason to stay busy. Or I start breaking things out of boredom.”
For a moment, there’s only the low hum of the climate control and the faint crackle of his cigar.
Then he sighs—deep, theatrical, and loaded with equal parts irritation and reluctant respect.
“Maybe,” he says, “I do have something for you.”
I don’t move.
He leans back, steeples his fingers over his gut like he’s about to tell a bedtime story for sociopaths.
“There’s a problem on Kaerva.”
“Which one?” I ask. “Slavers? Raiders? Rebels?”
“Large Marj Suppiko.”
I don’t answer. Don doesn’t need me to.
“Thought that name would get your attention.”
“She’s real?” I ask. “I heard she was a ghost. Or a title. Like an inherited identity.”
“She’s real,” he says. “Nine feet tall, meaner than a tax audit, and more patient than a Reaper nesting party. She controls Kaerva and the surrounding moons like they’re personal property—and the worst part? She doesn’t rule with firepower. She rules with reputation.”
He swipes something on his compad, tosses a holo into the air between us. It shows a flayed corpse hanging from a tower. Stylized. Ornamental. Ritualistic in that way only real bastards manage to be.
“This is how she broadcasts failure,” Don says, tapping the image. “Three separate hits. Three different crews. All ended up like that. She’s not just killing assassins. She’s making art out of them.”
“And you want me to be next?”
“I want you to end her.”
I raise a brow. “Alone?”
