The hoverbike vibrated beneath me as I threaded into the city’s outer lanes. It didn’t seem like they built Vothar for beauty, it was more like something out of a dystopian nightmare. Towers scraped the underbelly of the sky, half of them blinking with corporate logos, the other half covered in scorch marks or gang tags. The streets were packed with life and tension, no one seemed relaxed.

  A siren screamed overhead as two police skimmers roared past, anti-grav jets howling as they chased a burning convoy down a side street. One of the cars was already half-melted, spinning out, and the mercs in pursuit didn’t bother waiting for it to stop before opening fire. The crowd barely flinched. People kept walking, stepping over casing rounds and shattered glass like it was just another Tuesday.

  I veered off the main drag and cut through an alley, passing vendors hawking hot tech and black-market implants out of armored kiosks. One stall had a sign that read, “Fresh Neuropacks No Questions Asked.” Another advertised “Real Meat.” Whatever that meant.

  When I pulled up near the base of the Spire, I killed the engine and sat still for a second, watching the people flow past me like I wasn’t even there.

  The Spire was a monster up close. Steel, reinforced glass, and enough internal shielding to make a dreadnought blush. But that’s fine, I wasn’t planning to break in. I had everything I needed to straight through the front door.

  I cut the throttle and coasted, scanning for a place to ditch it.

  Big mistake.

  Every curb was crammed with vertical parking pylons, charging stations, cargo bots asleep at their posts. A two-seater cruiser tried to muscle into a spot not even a child could fit in. Somewhere behind me, a pedestrian screamed at a delivery drone that clipped his coat. A horn blared. Then another. Then twenty.

  I squeezed between a noodle cart and a wall of trash bins, earning a look from the vendor.

  “Private lot,” he snapped, jabbing a finger at the ground. “You park here, I break your spine.”

  I smiled under the helmet. “You’re welcome to try.”

  He took one look at my armor and turned back to his boiling vat. Smart man.

  I killed the engine, hopped off, and gave the bike a gentle pat. “Stay, girl. Don’t get stolen.”

  One last adjustment to the collar on Valor’s armor, and I crossed the street toward the Spire.

  Head up, shoulders squared, I strode in like I owned the place. The Spire’s lobby resembled the exterior, polished steel and sterile corporate lighting. Security was thick, mercs that looked more like operators, donned matte-black armor, all buzzcuts and cybernetic eyes. They clocked me fast. Some gave me that blank, tired look of men who’d seen worse. Others stared a beat too long, eyes trailing over the burn scars that hadn’t begun healing.

  They glanced my way, and I felt their eyes linger just a little too long on my face. Fresh burn wounds spread across my skin, raw and twisted from the blast not two hours ago. My limp hadn’t faded. And I carried myself like a man who knew pain intimately.

  Some of them nodded, like they recognized something. Others turned away, too afraid to ask.

  I pulled Valor’s ID from the chest pocket. AGENT VALOR. Simple, bold. Government font. No flourish. The kind of badge that got people out of your way.

  It worked. Mostly.

  One young guard didn’t budge.

  He stared too long, eyes flicking from my badge to my face and back again. Suspicion bloomed, slow and steady. His hand hovered near his belt—maybe for a scanner, maybe for a weapon.

  I didn’t give him the chance.

  Tried to touch his mind. Same way I had with Nyx. Same way I’d spoken to the dead things on the asteroid.

  Nothing.

  A tremor ran through my arms as if heat was traveling under my skin towards my hands. I looked down and saw it, light flickering like static off a frayed wire, like my hands were bleeding energy.

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  My body must’ve been too banged up to use it so easily. I closed my eyes and pushed harder.

  “You’ve seen this badge before.”

  The words slipped into his thoughts like smoke under a door.

  “You’ve cleared him before. You will again.”

  His face went slack. The doubt drained from his eyes, replaced by something hollow. He stepped aside, posture loose, compliant.

  Didn’t even realize what he’d done.

  Perfect.

  I passed him without another glance, sliding through the checkpoint as the rest of the security team parted around me, suddenly very interested in anything but me.

  One guard stepped forward as I approached the back of the lobby, clearing his throat. "The Warden will see you upstairs, sir." He gestured to the elevator at the end of the hall, a sleek, dark structure set apart from the other lifts, with what appeared to be reinforced doors and a faint red glow around the control panel. The “VIP” treatment, no doubt.

  I gave him nothing but a nod and headed for the elevator. He swiped his card, but before I could enter two guards stepped in ahead of me, tall, armored, not a single flicker of emotion between them. I followed, and two more slipped in behind me before the doors closed with a quiet thunk.

  Boxed in. Fantastic.

  The lights dimmed to a dull blue, humming like they were holding their breath. A single floor indicator blinked overhead, slow and deliberate. No numbers. Just a soft pulse, like a heartbeat waiting to stop.

  Then the music kicked in.

  Some smooth corporate jazz—soulless, chipper, and offensively upbeat. The kind of tune that played in funeral homes run by psychopaths. I glanced between the four guards, deadpan and statuesque.

  “Nice playlist,” I said. “Really sets the mood.”

  No reaction. Not even a blink.

  Tough crowd.

  We rode in silence, the music chirping cheerfully. No one moved. No one breathed. I could feel the eyes on me, even if they didn’t look directly. Like they were waiting for me to twitch.

  When the elevator finally chimed, signaling the top floor, the doors opened to a sprawling office. No decorations, no clutter. Just a massive window, stretching across the entire wall, offering a view of New Vothar’s cityscape. The room was bathed in a cold, blue light from the neon glow outside, casting long, sharp shadows across the empty space.

  And there, in the darkest corner, he watched.

  I couldn’t see his face, not yet. Just the outline of a figure seated behind an expansive desk. I stepped forward, feeling every pair of eyes from the guards boring into my back as I crossed the threshold. The silence was heavy, and I could feel his gaze tracing over me, assessing, calculating, as if he was testing me, waiting for the smallest misstep.

  Finally, he shifted, his face emerging from the shadows. He looked me over, his eyes narrowing as he took in the burns, the scars, the aftermath of the blast that nearly killed me. A hint of surprise flickered across his face, quickly masked by that cool, unreadable gaze.

  "Well," he drawled, his voice smooth and cold, His gaze trailed over my burned face, lingering just long enough to be insulting. "You’ve been… busy, I see."

  I forced a smirk, meeting his gaze without flinching.

  Orion studied me, his voice smooth and calculated. "Your reputation precedes you, Agent Valor. An easy job, I assume? Well… minus the burns."

  "Occupational hazard," I replied letting out a short, humorless laugh. "The team’s gone. They’ll think I am, too. I took care of the tracker myself, so… no chance of this little meeting making it back to anyone."

  His eyes gleamed as he smoothed the cuffs of his high-collared, military-style jacket. A sleek, gold-emblazoned emblem on his lapel caught the light: a star crossed with a sword, framed by an arc and halo. Not standard Republic issue. This was nobility. High command. Whoever Orion really was, he wasn’t just a handler. He was powerful. And he was a traitor.

  He gave a slight nod, a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Very good. Usually, I have to deal with imbeciles fumbling their way through my directives. But you... you're different."

  I paused. A thousand questions clawed their way up, but one wouldn’t let go.

  Yuki.

  If she was here. If Orion was involved, if she’d been caught up in all this somehow…

  Or worse, what if she wasn’t caught up at all?

  What if she helped plan it?

  Agent Valor might already be briefed on her status. Dead. Missing. Complicit.

  Hell, I barely knew her. This was all just a game once. My old squad didn’t hesitate to put me in a blast zone. Why would she?

  Orion’s eyes narrowed. "Valor? Something on your mind?"

  I blinked, snapping back to attention. "I misjudged the blast radius of the bomb. Stood a little too close. Rattled me more than I’d like to admit."

  His lips quirked up in a faint smile, hands steepling as he leaned back, like he had all the time in the galaxy to waste on me. “I can’t imagine. I was just saying, it’s rare to meet someone who knows how to keep quiet. Discretion is a dying art."

  He tapped a control on the desk. A subtle move, like brushing dust. “You’ll need that skill tonight. I’m hosting a small gathering. An opportunity to meet some of my associates.”

  He paused, gaze cutting into me. “Of course… only if you’re up for it.”

  I nodded once. “Always, sir.”

  That amused him. He leaned back, voice smooth. “Good. Dinner’s at twenty-one hundred, in my private hall. I trust you’ll find time to clean up—maybe find something to make yourself a little more… presentable.”

  His eyes lingered on the fresh burns.

  “Consider it done,” I said, jaw tight.

  He waved me off with a flick of his fingers. Dismissed like a courier.

  I turned, walking out under the weight of his gaze, each step heavy with the effort of keeping my posture straight.

  Only when the doors shut behind me did I feel it. the pressure crashing down like I’d been holding my breath for minutes. And now I had a dinner to survive.

  With a room full of enemies.