Page 10

TRAZ

G ur stinks of blood and desperation.

Always has.

I stalk through the slum streets, boots crunching over broken glass and old bones, my pulse hammering in time with the low hum of the city’s dying lights.

The contract’s fresh in my ear.

High-value target. No questions asked. Double bonus for making it messy.

Just how I like it lately.

The weight of my sidearm is solid against my thigh. Comforting. Familiar.

Violence doesn’t ask for explanations. Doesn’t demand you dig up parts of yourself you’d rather keep buried.

Violence just is.

I turn a corner and shoulder through a crowd of junk peddlers. They scatter fast. Nobody wants to be in a merc’s way, not on Gur, not when the streets run red before the suns even set.

A kid looks up at me—too skinny, too scared. I keep walking. I don’t stop. I don’t look back.

Mercy’s a luxury I burned out of myself a long time ago.

Or so I tell myself.

I find the target in a rusted-out bar on the outskirts of the Warrens.

He’s loud, drunk, boasting to anyone who’ll listen about his “deal of a lifetime.” Probably selling weapons to the wrong side.

Doesn’t matter.

What matters is he’s marked.

What matters is he breathes in and out, and someone out there’s paying good credits to make sure he stops.

I step inside, letting the door creak shut behind me.

A few heads turn. Then turn away fast.

Smart.

I cross the room slow, deliberate. Every stride calculated. Every muscle ready.

The guy sees me too late.

Recognition flares in his bloodshot eyes, and he fumbles for the blaster at his hip.

Amateur move.

I shoot him in the kneecap before he clears the holster.

He screams. Collapses hard against the filthy floor.

The bar goes silent.

Good.

I crouch down beside him, pressing the muzzle of my pistol against his sweat-slick temple.

“This is how it ends,” I say low, deadly.

“N-no—please—” he babbles.

I pull the trigger.

One shot. Clean. Final.

The body twitches once. Then stills.

I stand, holster the pistol, and walk out the door without looking back.

Another ghost for the streets to swallow.

Another job done.

Another few minutes I don't have to think about her.

But I do.

Every time.

No matter how many bodies hit the ground.

No matter how much blood soaks my hands.

Kelli’s still there.

In the back of my mind.

In the tightness in my chest I can’t breathe through.

In the way my hand sometimes flexes, aching for something it can't reach.

I curse under my breath and shove the thoughts down where they belong—deep and dark and chained tight.

She’s better off without me.

Safer.

I’m a weapon. Not a man. Not anymore.

And weapons don’t get happy endings.

Later, I sit in a dive apartment, lights low, drink cheap and burning down my throat.

The city hums outside—low, angry.

I scrub a hand over my face, staring at the battered wall like it'll offer answers.

It doesn't.

Nothing does.

I think about her eyes.

The fire in them.

The way she looked at me like she saw past the blood on my hands and didn’t flinch.

Nobody’s ever looked at me like that.

Not once.

I slam the glass down hard enough to crack it.

No.

Thinking gets you killed.

Feeling gets you killed.

I came to Gur to forget.

To bleed out the pieces of me that still believe in things like fate, like bonds, like destiny.

But fate’s stubborn.

Destiny’s cruel.

And bonds?

Bonds don’t break just because you’re too much of a coward to face them.

I lean back in the chair, staring up at the cracked ceiling.

I wonder if maybe...

Maybe leaving her wasn’t protecting her.

Maybe it was just another way to run.

The bond gnaws at me.

Quiet at first.

Then louder.

Until it’s a roar under my skin I can’t silence.

I feel her even now—like a tug behind my ribs, like something vital’s been ripped out and keeps bleeding no matter how many times I stitch it shut.

Every breath is a reminder.

Every beat of my heart is a betrayal.

The Jalshagar wasn’t supposed to be real.

A myth. A relic of an older, weaker time.

But it’s real enough that even light-years away, she haunts me.

The way she looked at me—brave and stubborn, even when she should’ve been afraid.

The way she stood her ground, silver and fire wrapped into something I didn’t deserve to touch.

The way, for one goddamn night, I felt like maybe there was something in me worth saving.

I smash my fist into the cheap metal table, the force rattling the whole frame.

I can’t get her out of my head.

And it’s making me dangerous.

Even more than usual.

The jobs get bloodier.

The risks get steeper.

I take contracts no sane merc would touch—storming drug dens solo, dismantling rival syndicates one bullet at a time.

Every time I step into a fight, part of me hopes it’ll be the last.

That someone faster, meaner, more desperate will finally end it.

But they never do.

I’m too good at staying alive.

Too stubborn to quit.

And the anger—the empty, gnawing rage—it only grows.

People start whispering about me on Gur.

The Skull-Taker.

The Ghost with the Green Eyes.

Stories spread. Body counts rise.

And I don't give a damn.

Let them fear me.

Fear keeps idiots from getting close.

Fear keeps me from doing something even dumber than what I’ve already done.

I sit in another dingy bar, back to the wall, nursing a drink that tastes like paint thinner and regret.

A job broker approaches—young, cocky, reeking of ambition.

He slides into the booth without asking.

Bad move.

“What do you want?” I growl.

He flinches, but masks it quick.

“I got work,” he says. “High profile. Big money.”

I glare at him over the rim of the glass.

“Not interested.”

“You didn’t even hear it yet.”

I set the glass down slow.

“Didn’t have to.”

He hesitates, then leans in like we’re old friends. Like we share something.

“Word is, you’re not picky anymore,” he says, voice low. “Word is, you’ll take anything.”

I stare at him, letting the silence stretch until it’s suffocating.

Then I smile.

It’s not a nice smile.

It’s a promise.

He swallows hard and scrambles out of the booth, muttering an apology.

Smart boy.

I finish my drink, toss a few dirty credits on the table, and walk out into the sickly green twilight.

The streets pulse with neon and rot.

I breathe it in like punishment.

Maybe that’s all I deserve now.

Rot.

Decay.

Forgotten places and forgotten people.

Because the truth is brutal.

No matter how many jobs I take.

No matter how many throats I cut.

No matter how cold I force myself to become.

I can’t kill the bond.

I can’t kill what’s tethered me to her.

And one day soon...

Either it’ll drive me back to her or it’ll drive me straight into the grave.