Page 13

TRAZ

T he second I break Glimner’s atmosphere, I know something’s wrong.

The comm crackles.

Then a burst of static.

Lock-on alerts scream across the dash.

Missile locks.

Multiple.

Fast.

My gut clenches.

I slam the controls sideways, sending the freighter into a gut-churning roll just as the first projectile blazes past the viewport, a white-hot streak of death.

Another one slams into the rear stabilizer.

The ship shudders so hard the bones in my teeth rattle.

Sparks shower from the console.

Alarms shriek, red lights flashing like war drums in the cramped cockpit.

“Shit,” I snarl under my breath, hands flying over the controls, trying to stabilize the spin.

But it’s too late.

The freighter’s nose tips down, hard, and the world outside whirls into a dizzy blur of ground, sky, and smoke.

They recognized me.

Of course they did.

Petru’s people never forget a threat.

And I left too many scars last time to blend in now.

The ship groans as I fight the controls, trying to angle the crash.

Better to hit dirt than smash straight into one of the Spine’s outer barricades.

Metal screams as the hull rips open somewhere in the back.

Pressure drops fast, a roaring in my ears.

I can barely see through the smoke.

No choice.

I brace hard.

Yank the emergency crash harness tight.

And pray to gods I stopped believing in years ago.

The freighter slams into the ground like a falling star.

The impact punches the air out of my lungs.

Pain detonates through my ribs, sharp and raw.

The world goes black for half a second.

When I blink back to life, the cockpit’s sideways.

Flames lick the cracked edges of the viewport.

The smell of burning metal and leaking fuel chokes me.

I unhook the harness, drop hard onto the tilted floor.

Every part of me screams in protest.

Doesn’t matter.

Gotta move.

Gotta get out before the whole wreck goes up.

I stumble toward the hatch, kicking debris out of my path.

The control panel sparks and dies when I slam my hand against it, so I plant my boots and slam my shoulder into the emergency lever.

It groans.

Sticks.

I grit my teeth and heave harder.

With a screech of abused metal, the hatch pops open, smoke and hot wind blasting in.

I haul myself out onto the cracked, dusty ground and collapse to one knee, coughing hard.

The freighter groans behind me.

I don’t look back.

No time.

Already I can hear the rumble of engines—scout bikes, by the sound of them.

Petru’s cleanup crew.

Coming fast.

They’re not here to offer surrender.

They’re here to finish what their missiles started.

I push to my feet, muscles screaming, and start moving.

Every step hurts.

But I keep going.

Because that’s what you do when the world’s burning around you.

You move.

You survive.

I stagger through the outskirts—half-fallen shanties, crumbling walls, scavenger nests.

The Spine looms in the distance, jagged and ugly against the sickly sky.

I’m not thinking about her.

I’m not.

But part of me—the part that still dreams when I’m too stupid to stay awake—wonders if she’s somewhere behind those black walls.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

Still waiting.

No.

Don’t think.

Don’t hope.

Hope is a blade that carves you from the inside out.

Focus.

One step.

One breath.

Get clear.

Find a ship.

Get out.

That’s the plan.

Simple.

Clean.

But deep down, buried under all the grit and blood, I know better.

Nothing about this is gonna be clean.

Not this time.

Not with her still pulling at my soul like gravity itself.

And if I don’t get my head straight fast…

I’m gonna burn right alongside this wrecked world.

My side’s on fire.

I don't notice it right away.

Adrenaline blinds you to pain when you’re fighting to breathe.

But as I limp farther from the crash, weaving through twisted metal and half-dead trees, the fire grows sharper.

Hot and deep and ugly.

I glance down.

Blood.

Dark and heavy, soaking through the side of my shirt.

The shot from the crash—or maybe shrapnel—must’ve caught me worse than I thought.

Every step pulls at it. Every breath is a goddamn battle.

I slow down, pressing a hand hard against the wound.

It’s a mistake.

Standing still.

Thinking.

Because the second I pause, the second my brain catches up, the truth lands hard:

This was never about the cargo.

Never about the money.

It’s a setup.

Has been from the start.

Glimner. The easy offer. The no-names contract.

All of it designed to lure me back here.

Back where they could finally kill me clean.

I curse under my breath, eyes scanning the ruins around me.

Could still cut and run.

Could still find a sewer entrance, a tunnel, a path to vanish down.

But the perimeter’s closing fast.

Engines growl.

Boots thud.

The noose tightens.

I reach for my sidearm, breathing hard, ready to make them work for it.

When a shadow drops into the road ahead of me.

Quick.

Silent.

I jerk back, leveling the gun out of instinct.

The figure raises their hands slowly.

No weapon drawn.

No immediate threat.

My vision’s swimming, but I blink hard and refocus.

It’s a woman.

Tall. Lean. Armor battered but serviceable.

Blonde hair twisted into a harsh knot.

Cold gray eyes sharp enough to cut steel.

Recognition slams into me like another blow to the ribs.

Silpha.

Alone.

No guards.

No backup.

Just her.

Standing between me and whatever future’s still bleeding out through my fingers.

And she’s not smiling.

Not gloating.

Just staring.

Like she’s been waiting a long, long time for this.