“See? Progress.”
“Yet,” I say with a glare. “The operant word here isyet.”
CHAPTER 3
VROK
Novaria’s surface lights pulse beneath my ship like a living circuit board—bright, erratic, arrogant in that way only planets with too many vices and not enough laws can be. It sprawls beneath me like it’s daring me to look down, to see the filth and chaos and charm stitched together in the shape of civilization.
I do look.
Because I like knowing exactly what I’m walking into.
I set the ship down in a hangar that smells like scorched coolant and desperation. The docking assistant tries to sell me a fuel package and a smile too wide to mean anything good. I don’t even speak. I just stare. He stammers, backs off, mutters something about rates being posted anyway.
The city doesn’t greet me.
Itconsumesme.
I don’t fight it. I let myself sink.
The streets throb underfoot—pavement humming with sub-currents and dirty neon, the kind of color that stains your skin if you stand too close too long. Holo-signs scream at me in six languages. Someone’s laughing behind me. Someone’s gettingpunched ahead of me. No one looks twice. This place is stitched together with adrenaline and bad ideas.
Perfect.
I follow the beat.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The low thump of subsonics guides me through two alleys and into a stairwell that smells like piss and spice, then out into a club that doesn’t have a name—just a symbol burned into the door. It pulses once as I pass through, like it’s scanning for weapons or shame.
I have neither.
Inside, the world changes.
Sound hits me first.
Bass like a heartbeat, dense and deep and designed to override your pulse. Music layered in synth growls and sampled screams, tempo fast enough to trick your nerves into thinking you’re in danger. Over it all—voices. Hundreds of them. High, low, fake, desperate. Laughter that cuts through the mix like a knife through silk. Everything smells like oil, sweat, perfume, and ozone. Even the lights taste like static.
It’s beautiful.
In the same way a trap is beautiful when it’s set just right.
I don’t go to the bar.
I don’t dance.
Iwatch.
I move through the bodies like I belong. Shoulders loose. Steps even. Eyes half-lidded and alert. It’s easy to play prey when you’ve been a predator this long.
I scan for killers the way some people scan menus.
What moves like confidence?
What holds eye contact too long?
What walks like they’re planning exits and options instead of memories?
It’s in the posture. The stillness. The hands.
