Chapter 6
KRAJ
Night bleeds cold and quiet across the skin of Arkosh.
I breathe it in—dust, metal, bitter ozone. The kind of air that clings to the inside of your throat and leaves a taste like rust. The moons are twin crescents above, thin as blades, throwing pale blue light across the settlement’s outskirts.
Perfect for stalking.
My claws dig into the dry dirt as I crouch behind the perimeter barrier, its weak pulse of energy flickering like it’s too tired to work properly. Wildwood isn’t exactly a high-priority investment for Helios. Half the place is duct tape and corporate lies. Makes my job easier.
Across the field, a figure moves—small, wiry. The courier.
He’s punctual, I’ll give him that. Always comes when the comms tower shifts into standby. Same route, same time, every two nights. His satchel bulges with data rods and encrypted pouches, like he thinks the back trails of Wildwood are invisible.
They’re not.
Especially not to me.
Targen’s orders were clear. “Watch the comms tower. Track any Alliance rat sniffin’ around. We don’t want Helios playing both sides.” His voice always sounds like sandpaper soaked in old whiskey.
So here I am, hunched in the dark, tail low, eyes on the courier.
But my focus drifts.
Again.
To her building.
Her window’s on the second level, corner unit, one light on behind the frosted pane. Just a blur of motion now and then. A shadow passing. A curtain shifting. A dream that refuses to die.
Damn me for caring.
I snap my head back toward the courier. He’s climbing the comms ladder now, moving like he’s done this a dozen times. Which he probably has.
I should be recording.
Should be tagging and transmitting.
But my hand stays at my side, claws twitching.
Because Luna’s silhouette just moved again. A flutter behind glass. A ghost in my chest.
I move through the shadows like I was born there.
Feet silent. Breath controlled. Tail low and balanced.
My eyes track the courier out of habit more than intention now. He’s placing a rod into the uplink receiver. Fast. Efficient. Doesn’t even look around.
He’s too comfortable.
That tells me more than any data intercept could.
He’s been doing this a long time—and no one’s stopped him. Helios is either complicit or negligent. Either way, the Coalition’s going to have a fit. But I don’t care. Not right now.
I only care about one thing.
And she’s a few buildings over, sleeping—hopefully—without knowing I’m out here like a monster in the weeds.
Later, after the courier slinks back into the night and the tower goes quiet, I retreat to my hideout.
It’s a cave in the rockface just outside the boundary grid, covered by an old heat-dampener tarp and sensor scramblers. Inside, I’ve cobbled together a workspace from smuggler junk, stolen parts, and a couple of Helios scrapboxes.
It smells like oil and regret.
I sit at the console and log the courier’s activity with minimal notes. My fingers pause over the terminal.
Should I report the Helios breach?
Targen would flip his spines. He’d send in a sweep team, maybe even target Luna if he thinks she’s been compromised.
I clench my jaw.
Not yet.
I close the file and push the terminal away.
The quiet wraps around me, thick and cold.
I pull an old logbook from under the bench—real paper, ancient thing. Stolen from a Helios freighter two years ago. The pages are yellowed, the binding cracked.
I flip to a blank page.
And I draw.
Claws careful, strokes light. Just like she taught me once, years ago, when we were tangled in sheets and soft light and hope.
I don’t need reference.
Her face lives behind my eyes.
The curve of her jaw. The shape of her eyes. The mouth that used to smile when I said something stupid. The lines I put there when I broke everything.
I sketch her hair, loose and wind-blown.
Her shoulders, small and strong.
Her expression—sad, tired, still beautiful.
When I’m done, I stare at it for a long time.
My throat aches.
Like I’ve swallowed fire.
She deserves peace. Not this. Not me hovering outside her life like a shadow waiting to devour it.
I tear the page from the binding.
Light it with my claw.
Watch it curl and blacken until nothing’s left but ash.
I am not that man anymore.
I can’t be.
The sky splits like old leather—thin, ragged, scorched by propulsion wash as a dark wedge streaks across the clouds.
I glance up from the rock shelf, eyes narrowing.
The Coalition skiff cuts a lean path above the outer valley, black hull glinting dully in the dying light, red sigils flaring faint along its belly.
They’re early.
I slide my claws across the control band on my wrist, flipping through scrambled frequencies until I hit the right pulse. Two quick bursts, one long, then a silent beacon ping. The signal spikes—encrypted, masked through a dummy weather satellite.
The skiff tilts slightly mid-flight.
Acknowledged.
They veer wide, curving past the Wildwood grid like good little ghosts. Bypassing any Helios scans. No unauthorized flyovers, no broken treaties. On paper, they never came.
I kill the signal.
Sigh.
That’s the game.
Make just enough noise to seem loyal. Not enough to draw attention. They’re watching me—I’d be stupid to think otherwise. Targen might’ve said “observation only,” but when did spies ever say what they meant?
I scrape my claws against the rock and stand.
Time to act normal.
Which, for a killer in exile, apparently means getting drunk in a backwater cantina full of Helios grease-heads and tired contractors.
Wonderful.
The cantina outside Wildwood is exactly as I remember it—loud, sticky, and soaked in that peculiar scent of sweat, plasma residue, and fermented rootshine. The air pulses with synth bass and old mercenary ballads, distorted through overworked speakers embedded in the walls.
I duck low to get through the doorway, tail twitching to avoid knocking over some idiot’s drink.
“Watch it, lizard!” some guy slurs near the entry.
I bare my teeth in a smile that’s all fang.
He shuts up real fast.
I slide into a corner booth, away from the main floor. The lighting’s low, warm and greasy, casting long shadows over dented tables and half-broken holo projectors. A waitress glides by, eyes tired, tray balanced on one shoulder.
“Rootshine. Cold,” I grunt.
She nods and disappears.
I scan the room, half out of habit, half because I know every threat worth dodging wears a smile first.
That’s when I hear him.
Loud. Sloppy. Arrogant.
“...stole the damn thing right out from under the Alliance’s nose,” the man crows, holding court near the bar. He’s mid-forties, wearing Helios silver with a cheap executive brooch pinned crookedly to his collar.
Fat fingers. Sweaty face. Too many rings.
My ears perk.
He’s laughing, voice brimming with the smugness of someone who’s never once paid the price for his mouth.
“New fab algorithm. Cuts production time by nearly half. Ship-wide dissemination starts next quarter. And the best part? They think it’s still under development!”
The table of junior suits around him cackle, raising half-filled glasses.
I push my drink aside, untouched.
Get up.
Slide through the crowd like smoke.
I bump into the fat executive as he turns to flag down another drink. My shoulder knocks his, hard enough to jostle his balance.
“Watch it!” he snaps.
I offer a toothy grin. “Apologies. Didn’t mean to interrupt such riveting conversation.”
He squints up at me, blinking. “You—coalface, right? From one of the old sectors?”
I nod slowly. “Something like that.”
“Didn’t think your kind drank here.”
“Didn’t think your kind talked here,” I murmur, real quiet.
His brow furrows.
I lean in slightly. “What’d you say about a fabrication algorithm?”
He straightens, puffing out his chest. “Nothing sensitive, I assure you. Just… Helios innovation. The usual.”
“Mm.” I flick my tongue against a pointed canine. “Sure sounded like Alliance tech.”
He laughs, suddenly nervous. “Well, you know how it is. Acquisition’s acquisition.”
“Of course.”
I clap him on the back so hard his drink spills.
“Tell me more,” I say, dragging him toward the back.
The sonic recycler sits behind the cantina, its rusted door propped open with a cracked crate. Steam hisses from the side vents—standard waste compression. Smells like burnt citrus and melted oil.
The Helios exec stumbles, wheezing, shirt collar askew.
“I didn’t mean anything by it—just talk—drunken talk—”
“You got handsy with the waitress,” I growl.
“What? No! I—I—”
I slam him into the wall, claws braced beside his head. He goes pale fast.
“You think that’s how you get attention? Bragging like a fool, putting people at risk, pawing at women like they’re part of the furniture?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care.”
He sobs something that might be “please.”
I throw him into the recycler.
The machine jolts, cycles a warning chime, then begins its pressure cleanse. I yank him out halfway through, dripping in sterilized mist, trembling.
“You speak about that algorithm again, I’ll let the compactor finish its cycle.”
He nods violently.
“Good,” I say, and walk away, wiping my claws on my coat.
Back at the hideout, I pace.
I should be uploading the exec’s brag to Targen. Should be praising my own initiative. Alliance tech theft? That’s gold for a report.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because my brain’s full of her again.
Of Luna. And that kid. Her laughter. Her eyes.
It’s all wrong.
I’m not meant to feel this way.
I’m not built for softness, not forged for longing. I was raised in war, honed in shadows, trained to cut throats with a whisper and vanish before the blood hits the floor.
But being here—seeing her again—it’s unmaking me.
Every day that passes, the lines blur.
I’m not a spy.
Not a saboteur.
Not anymore.
I just want her.
And I have no idea how to make that right.