“Especially if it slows you down.”
She glares. But she doesn’t pull away.
We leave together.
The halloutside is chaos wrapped in silence.
Lights flicker amber. Emergency shutters hiss half-closed along the corridor. A pair of security droids lie deactivated near the lift shaft—Vrek’s handiwork, judging by the carbon scoring.
We move fast. My muscles remember the rhythm of command, the timing of controlled panic. Isolde follows half a step behind me, her breath steadying into the same rhythm as mine.
“Reflector,” I mutter. “Talk to me.”
“Dockside crews are in lockdown. Communications are compromised. I’ve rerouted visual feeds from your wing. You’vegot six hostiles two levels down, one of them definitely Vrek. And—Garokk?—”
“What?”
“He’s broadcasting.”
I stop.
“Play it.”
A low crackle. Then Vrek’s voice, amplified and oily through the station’s public address feed.
“Attention Orbimall citizens. This is Captain Vrek of theMarauder’s Debt.Your corporate masters and their pet pirate are done playing nice. You’re under new management.”
He pauses. There’s noise behind him—cheering, maybe. Metal boots on deck plates. My crew.
My own goddamn men.
“Now, don’t panic. No one dies—if our terms are met. The syndicate pays up, their princess behaves, and the Crimson Raider stays leashed where he belongs.”
Static. Then silence.
Isolde’s hand curls into a fist. “He’s using me.”
“No,” I say. “He’s usingus.”
She looks up at me. “You know what that means.”
“Yeah.” My throat feels raw. “He’s got leverage.”
“Pyramus.”
I don’t answer.
Because saying it makes it real.
We reach the stairwell. It spirals downward into the service tunnels. Emergency lighting paints everything a sick shade of red. The hum of the station’s life-support pulses under my boots like a heartbeat.
Isolde moves ahead of me, hair whipping around her face, fury replacing fear.
“I should’ve seen this coming,” she says.
“You couldn’t have.”
“You did.”
