Page 166 of Bonds of Starfall

Except, he didn’t have Rin with him.

Kit was alone.

And—

The ship shook, making the vision of the Stars beyond the window dip, until they turned into one long streak of brightness amid the dark of the galaxy.

The oxygen levels were depleted. His head grew light, chest tightening.

Kit pressed the radio, speaking into it. His voice was incoherent from lack of air.

"Mayday, mayday. This is Blackfall of Division 07. Ship headed to Sibeth…" He struggled to draw in air. Everything blurred in and out of focus. "A blast below—oxygen hit."

Nothing but static.

His finger slipped on the button, and the rotating pilot’s chair he sat in groaned as he fell back, dizzy. It swiveled, and through bleary eyes, he watched the Hunters. They were out cold, heads tipped to their chests or leaning to the sides, kept upright only by the harnesses strapping them to their chairs.

The whole ship rattled, and Kit’s eyes flicked up. That sounded like—like the ship was being boarded. Had the call for help gone through?

Everything went hazy and dark. It was so hot, even his sweat felt cool on his skin. He stayed like that for what felt like forever, until the rattling ship roused him back to awareness.

Dull, hollow thudding noises echoed.

With blurry eyes, he watched as smoke hissed through the ship. Through the grey tinge of smoke, figures decked in black and wearing oxygen masks stormed in—assault rifles held rigidly in their hands as they swept through the darkness.

When had it gone dark?

Kit groaned, fingers twitching.

His gaze drifted to the controls, finding the warning lights off and the board dark. Only the light of the Stars glowed through the window.

A strange sound broke through the dull ringing in his ears. His head turned.

What he saw?—

A dream?

Or reality?

The masked figures leveled their black, sleek rifles at the passed-out Hunters. One raised a gloved hand, making a gesture with his fingers, then fired. A suppressor dulled the sound. TheHunter jerked. Blood and brains splattered from the hole in his head. Sprayed on the dark wall of the ship. Dead.

Then the next. A dull thud. A body jerking. A spray of red and brain matter, cutting through the grey mist.

When the Hunters were dead, their lifeless bodies held up the straps, slumped in their seats, the masked figures turned to Kit.

He wheezed, fingers slipping over the controls as he tried the radio one last time. It clicked. Didn’t work.

He undid his harness, falling to the floor. The ship rattled and rocked. He gasped.

Just as boots stopped in his line of sight and the tip of a still-hot barrel touched his chin, burning, forcing his face up, the whole ship jerked to the side as a fiery explosion roared.

Pain exploded up Kit’s right arm. Everything went dark.

When he came to—could’ve been seconds or hours later—something wet was on his face. His body was crushed to the cold floor of the ship. He tried to push himself up. Pain lanced up his right side. He groaned; the sound was distant.

Sweat blurred his vision as he lifted his head. His right arm?—

Vomit churned in his gut, burning its way up his throat. He barely had time to turn his head before he was sick all over the floor. It mingled with ash and blood and metal and broken body parts and?—