Chapter 12
ROJA
The underdeck doesn’t welcome people like me anymore.
It eyes me sideways—like a stray coming home too late, covered in blood that isn’t his.
Pipes hiss above my head as I duck under a steam vent.
The walls here aren’t just sweating. They’re crying—grease and condensation weeping down into trash-clogged gutters.
Every footstep I take sounds too loud.
I keep my coat closed. Blade strapped tight to my side, pulse glider clipped at the small of my back. It’s not paranoia when your name’s in someone’s killfile. It’s survival.
The Pith is still open. Neon barely holding on above the door, flickering between pink and piss-yellow like it can’t decide what kind of lie to tell.
Inside, it smells like warm metal and recycled breath.
Feron’s in his usual booth—back corner, view of both exits. Same rat-brown jacket. Same scar along his jaw, courtesy of a plasma cutter that didn't quite finish the job.
He sees me. Doesn’t smile.
“Roja,” he says. “Thought you were buried under a load of scrap and shame.”
“Not yet.”
“Shame, then?”
I slide into the booth. “I need a name.”
He exhales like it’s a game. “You always do.”
“This one’s personal.”
Feron blinks slow. “Girl trouble?”
I don’t answer.
He chuckles. “Ah. The dancer.”
I tense. Just enough for him to notice.
“Didn’t peg you for sentimental.”
“I’m not. She’s in danger.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“She got flagged. I want to know who.”
“Coalition?”
I nod.
He drums his fingers on the sticky table. “You know what asking me means.”
“Yeah. But you owe me.”
He holds up two fingers. “One and a half, Roja. That’s what I owe. This makes two.”
“You trace the request, we’re square.”
He leans back, studying me. “You’re shaking the wrong tree, friend. You don’t want the fruit that falls.”
“Try me.”
He slides his datapad from his coat. “Give me your timeframe.”
“Last three weeks. Jark administration backend. Someone used shell credentials.”
He whistles. “You always pick the fun ones.”
The minutes stretch long. He’s faster than he lets on, hands dancing over keys like he’s playing some grimy piano only he can hear. His jaw tightens partway through.
When he speaks again, it’s soft.
“Well. Shit.”
“What?”
“You were right. This wasn’t just a flag—it was a mark. Cleric stationed under a certain Vasso. Ever heard of him?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Alliance intelligence. Dirtiest kind.”
“Bingo. Halik’s request came through cloaked in religious clearance, but Vos scrubbed the path. That means it’s personal.”
“Or expensive.”
“Or both.”
I clench my fists. “They want her gone.”
“Looks that way.”
“You jam the ping?”
“For now,” he says. “But nothing’s permanent. They’ll sniff it eventually.”
“What’s it gonna cost me?”
Feron’s eyes glint. “My sister. Kirthos IX. Penal mine.”
“That’s federal.”
“Exactly. Get her out.”
“I’m not a miracle worker.”
“No. You’re worse. You’re a man with a conscience and a past full of bodies.”
I look away.
“You gonna tell the girl?” he asks after a moment.
“Not yet. She’s scared enough.”
“She should be.”
I rise. “I’ll think about it.”
“No,” he says, voice flat. “You’ll do it.”
I don’t answer. Just walk out, the shard burning a hole in my pocket and my pulse hammering like it wants out.
This thing’s bigger than her.
Which means it’s bigger than me.
The air in the yard feels different this morning—heavier, like the clouds pressing down from the outside have crawled in through the ventilation.
I clock it the moment I walk past the first wall scanner. There’s a chill behind my neck that doesn’t come from temperature. It comes from eyes.
From the weight of being noticed.
Crosser’s waiting by the tool lockers. He usually doesn’t wait. Usually just grabs his cutter and vanishes into the east bays before anyone can saddle him with small talk.
Today he leans against the rack with his arms folded and that fake neutral expression he wears when he’s sizing someone up.
“Late,” he mutters.
“Clock says I’m two early,” I say.
“You know what I mean.”
I meet his gaze for half a second before I look away—casual, like I’ve got better things to do than read the threat in his voice. I reach for my locker. My claws twitch when I open it. Muscle memory wants the blade first. Habit screams stay calm.
“Something wrong?” I ask, voice low.
Crosser shrugs. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’ve got friends poking where they shouldn’t be.”
I freeze. Just enough to feel it.
Then I slam the locker shut and turn. “You wanna accuse me of something, boss, say it loud. Otherwise, I’ve got rust to clean.”
He doesn’t stop me as I walk. Doesn’t have to.
I feel his stare burn through the back of my neck all the way down to my tail.
My next shift grinds by like a bad joint—every motion scraping, every command laced with something unspoken. I keep my head down. My claws stay tight around the fusion spanner, and I barely register the welds I’m making.
But I don’t miss the way Crosser’s shadow lingers too long near the east rail.
Or the way Alric, two bays over, glances at me like I’m about to grow a second head.
Something’s shifted. The questions are circling now. Someone sniffed too close to Feron’s datapath, or maybe a comm log cracked in the wrong place. It doesn’t matter.
They know I’m not just turning bolts anymore.
By the time the buzzer shrieks end-of-shift, my hands are shaking under the gloves.
I wipe them on my pants. Try to act like the grease is what’s making me twitch.
I don’t wait around to chat. Just drop my tools, clock out, and vanish into the yard’s exhaust trails before anyone else can corner me.
But I don’t walk home.
I walk to the shadows.
Because I need to think. And thinking near people right now feels a lot like painting a target on my chest.