Chapter 6
ROJA
“You married to that place now, Roja?”
Vex leans on the crate lift like he owns it, a stim stick half-dead between his teeth. He doesn’t even glance up from the manifest sheet he’s pretending to review.
I grunt. “What place.”
He smirks around the stim. “The Coil. You been hanging around it like a docked skiff with a busted nav. You know it’s just dancers and smoke, right?”
“Didn’t ask your opinion.”
“You don’t gotta,” he says. “Everyone’s talking. Said you been haunting it after shift. Just sayin’, if you’re after a particular piece of tail, she’s got a line of suitors already. Don’t seem like your style, hanging around waiting.”
I don’t reply. There’s nothing to deny.
He’s not wrong.
But it ain’t about tail.
Not like that.
I wait until shift ends, until the docks go quiet and the orbital cranes stop whining like broken ghosts. The walk to the Coil’s all metal and cold light. I don’t head in tonight—don’t need to. I’ve already seen what I need to see.
Around back, the delivery door sweats grease and heat. A couple of low-rung security drones flicker overhead, barely maintaining their pattern. One of the hired guards puffs on a vapor stick, eyes glazed. Too alert for a guy that bored.
Somebody’s watching the Coil. Word is, a tip came in—undocumented human possibly hiding inside. Not my concern.
Still. I tuck the detail away.
Inside’s quieter than usual. Lights low. Floors still wet from the evening mop. The scent of burnt citrus from the disinfectant hangs thick, clashing with the ghosts of old liquor and cheap perfume.
The bartender’s hunched behind the counter, rinsing glasses that don’t need rinsing. It’s busy work. A stall tactic. He knows I’m coming before I speak.
I step up slow. Set my hands down flat on the bar. Let the silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to set in.
“You drink now?” he mutters, not looking up.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” He turns a glass upside down with a snap. “Then this isn’t a social visit.”
“No.”
A beat passes. He glances up, finally meeting my eyes. His are pale, rimmed red, like he hasn't slept right in weeks. “So what’s it about? Let me guess—the girl.”
He’s trying to play it casual. He fails.
“You know her?”
“Only what anyone knows.” He starts polishing the glass again, even though it’s already spotless. “Name’s Kelsea. Pays on time. Quiet. Works hard. That’s all I got.”
His eyes twitch—just a flick—to the curtain that leads to backstage.
Too smooth. Too rehearsed.
“She got family?”
He hesitates, just long enough to confirm the answer before it comes. “Not that I’ve seen.”
“Friends?”
“She keeps to herself.” He shrugs. “Some girls are like that.”
I lean in slightly. Not enough to menace. Just enough to cast a shadow. “You always this helpful?”
His jaw tenses. “Look, she ain’t mine to answer for.”
“Didn’t say she was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The bar is silent now, the kind of stillness that feels like waiting for a bomb to go off. Only the hum of the refrigeration unit murmurs behind us.
I narrow my eyes. “She here legal?”
“I don’t ask.”
“You should.”
He meets my gaze again. There’s a glint in his eye now—defensive, or maybe just tired. “What do you want from me, Roja? You want dirt, you’re not gonna get it from me. I run a clean house.”
“No house with that many secrets is clean.”
“Then maybe you oughta stop hanging around it.”
We stare each other down for a beat. He blinks first.
I back off, slow. Let the tension bleed out of my shoulders. “She’s not just another girl.”
“I didn’t say she was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I turn and walk. His eyes follow me all the way to the door.
He’s hiding something. I can smell it in the air. The stale sweat under the citrus scrub. The way he wouldn't answer what I didn't ask. He's not scared—but he’s wary. That’s enough.
At home, I don’t sleep.
I pull up old data threads, dark web caches, coalition backchannels. Old favors come due. Names, pings, shadows. I run every alias I can conjure. I start mapping her movements from the last six months. Every scrap of data. Every glimpse.
Something’s off. And I’m going to find it.
I try to keep her out of my mind. But I can’t. Soon I’m throwing on my coat even though I have the early shift in the morning and heading out.
The streets bleed neon and motor oil, choked in steam and too many lies.
I walk slow. Every step echoes off metal grates and cracked ferrocrete.
The wind hisses through old alley ducts, reeking of rust and rot, but I barely notice.
I’m already sweating under my jacket. The weight of the pistol at my hip, the tension knotted in my gut, and the thought of her—it all clings heavier than humidity.
By the time I reach the Coil, my pulse is a steady hammer. Not fast. Not nervous.
Just ready.
Inside, the club's atmosphere hits like a fist to the sternum. Heat, sound, light—all fighting for dominance. Smoke curls low across the floor, laced with synth-herbs that make the air taste sweet and sharp at the same time. Music thumps, deep and slow, like it’s pulling something out of the earth.
I don’t look at the stage.
Not yet.
I make my way around the edge of the floor, avoiding the sticky spots where spilled drinks mix with sweat and something sour. My boots are heavy. Deliberate. Every step says I’m here on purpose. I don’t care who watches. Let ‘em talk.
Let them wonder.
I settle into the far corner, shadowed enough to vanish, but close enough to see every inch of the stage. My usual spot. Familiar. Comfortable.
Then the lights shift.
Low amber blooms from beneath the floor grates, backlighting the smoke in a way that makes everything look unholy. The music fades into something more primal—no lyrics, just a throbbing rhythm that pulses straight through the bones.
And then she’s there.
Kelsea steps out from the haze like she was born of it, like the smoke coiled around her spine in the womb and never let go. Her skin glows under the firelight, eyes catching every flicker like twin trapfires. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.
Her gaze finds mine instantly.
No hesitation. No questions.
Just heat.
A slow, building current that drags everything else under with it.
I don’t move. Don’t shift my weight or cross my arms or let my face twitch. I hold steady, let her look. Let her know I’m here. That I’m not leaving.
She begins to dance.
It’s not just movement. It’s storytelling.
Every roll of her hip, every arc of her arms, every flick of her fingers—it all speaks.
And gods, it speaks loud. She doesn’t play to the crowd.
They’re background noise. Eyes sweep the room, sure, but they land on me like I’m the only fixed point in her orbit.
The scarf is still around her neck. Black silk. Subtle. Dangerous. It slides with her movements, catching the firelight in flashes. I remember the feel of it—cool against my palm. I wonder if it’s still got my scent. I wonder if she kept it close or shoved it in a drawer and forgot.
But the way she wears it…
No. She didn’t forget.
She wants me to see it.
The tempo rises, and so does she. She spins, fast, whirling like a blade barely in control. Her body flows, all lean muscle and violent grace. My chest tightens.
I’ve seen assassins move with less precision.
Around me, the crowd is ravenous. Cheers and whistles and throws of credits fill the air, but none of it touches her. None of it breaks that gaze. She’s not dancing for them. She’s not teasing. This is something else. A message. A challenge.
What am I to her?
Protector?
Predator?
Both?
My hands are fists in my pockets. I don’t remember clenching them. My claws dig into the inner lining of my coat, and I imagine—for one brief, dangerous moment—what it would feel like to rip that scarf away and bury my face in her throat.
She drops low at the center of the fire pit, sweat glistening at her temple, breath heaving through parted lips. Smoke coils around her knees. Her spine arches as she rises again, slow, deliberate, like she’s daring gravity to keep her down.
She’s fire made flesh.
And I burn watching her.
The music crashes to a stop. The lights cut low.
She stands still in the dying haze, chest rising, eyes locked with mine. Her lips part slightly, and in the glow of the last flame, I can almost hear her whisper.
Don’t you dare look away.
I don’t.
Not for a heartbeat. Not for breath.
I nod once.
It’s all I give her. All I can give her without setting fire to everything.
Then I turn, slowly, boots dragging across the floor, and push back out into the night. The door creaks shut behind me like it’s holding back something wild.
I don't light a smoke. I don't check my comm. I just walk. Each step loud in my head. Each step echoing with the fact that I'm in deeper than I thought.
I’m not ready to leave this alone.
And maybe I never was.