Because nothing here belongs to me.
Because nothing here is permanent.
Because I am not staying.
I smooth the fabric at my wrists and glance once at my reflection, not to admire it, but to assess it. Unremarkable in all the ways that matter.
“Survive first,” I say quietly to the empty room, my voice steady.
Escape later.
And this time, when I leave?—
I do not come back.
CHAPTER 2
TYROK
The numbers don’t lie, but they do offend me.
I lean back in the command chair, one claw dragging slowly across the edge of the console as the projection scrolls in front of me, line after line of debt reports, trade manifests, failed collections, and half-paid obligations dressed up as promises. The glow of the display casts everything in a cold blue haze, reflecting off the metal plating of the bridge and catching along the edges of my bone spurs like fractured light. The ship hums beneath me, steady and alive, the vibration traveling up through the chair and into my spine in a way that has always felt more honest than any spoken word.
“Say it,” Vihl mutters from my left, arms crossed, his voice low and already irritated. “You’ve been staring at that same line for five minutes.”
“I’ve been deciding how much it annoys me,” I reply, my voice calm, though the irritation sits just beneath it like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Vihl snorts, shifting his weight, the metal grating beneath his boots scraping softly. “Let me save you the effort. It’s a lot.”
I flick my fingers, isolating the entry in question and expanding it until the data fills the space between us. The namesits there, clean and polished, surrounded by numbers that should be higher.
Baronet Kleid Lorens.
Outstanding debt: unacceptable.
Payment delays: repeated.
Verification flags: suspicious.
“He’s playing games,” Vihl says, leaning in slightly as he scans the projection. “You want me to pull his last three trade routes? I guarantee he’s hiding assets.”
“He isn’t hiding them well enough,” I say, my gaze tracking the inconsistencies. “If he were, we wouldn’t be looking at this.”
Vihl grins, sharp and humorless. “Then he’s stupid.”
“No,” I say, tapping one claw lightly against the display, watching how the numbers ripple under the contact. “He thinks he’s protected.”
That gets Vihl’s attention.
“Protected how?” he asks, his tone shifting from irritation to interest.
I expand another layer of data, pulling in external affiliations, financial ties, and political connections. The Helios Combine logo flickers faintly in the corner of the projection, subtle but unmistakable.
“There,” I say.
Vihl leans closer, his expression tightening. “Combine-backed.”
“Lightly,” I correct. “Enough to matter, not enough to save him.”
