Chapter 3
VROK
Novaria’s surface lights pulse beneath my ship like a living circuit board—bright, erratic, arrogant in that way only planets with too many vices and not enough laws can be.
It sprawls beneath me like it’s daring me to look down, to see the filth and chaos and charm stitched together in the shape of civilization.
I do look.
Because I like knowing exactly what I’m walking into.
I set the ship down in a hangar that smells like scorched coolant and desperation. The docking assistant tries to sell me a fuel package and a smile too wide to mean anything good. I don’t even speak. I just stare. He stammers, backs off, mutters something about rates being posted anyway.
The city doesn’t greet me.
It consumes me.
I don’t fight it. I let myself sink.
The streets throb underfoot—pavement humming with sub-currents and dirty neon, the kind of color that stains your skin if you stand too close too long.
Holo-signs scream at me in six languages.
Someone’s laughing behind me. Someone’s getting punched ahead of me.
No one looks twice. This place is stitched together with adrenaline and bad ideas.
Perfect.
I follow the beat.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The low thump of subsonics guides me through two alleys and into a stairwell that smells like piss and spice, then out into a club that doesn’t have a name—just a symbol burned into the door. It pulses once as I pass through, like it’s scanning for weapons or shame.
I have neither.
Inside, the world changes.
Sound hits me first.
Bass like a heartbeat, dense and deep and designed to override your pulse.
Music layered in synth growls and sampled screams, tempo fast enough to trick your nerves into thinking you’re in danger.
Over it all—voices. Hundreds of them. High, low, fake, desperate.
Laughter that cuts through the mix like a knife through silk.
Everything smells like oil, sweat, perfume, and ozone. Even the lights taste like static.
It’s beautiful.
In the same way a trap is beautiful when it’s set just right.
I don’t go to the bar.
I don’t dance.
I watch.
I move through the bodies like I belong. Shoulders loose. Steps even. Eyes half-lidded and alert. It’s easy to play prey when you’ve been a predator this long.
I scan for killers the way some people scan menus.
What moves like confidence?
What holds eye contact too long?
What walks like they’re planning exits and options instead of memories?
It’s in the posture. The stillness. The hands.
Especially the hands.
Thrill-seekers throw their weight around, touch everything, move like their high is loud enough to justify their limbs. Professionals? They don’t touch unless they mean it. They don’t lean unless they’re mapping the room. And their hands?
Their hands are quiet.
I smell blood under the perfume of three different people. One of them’s not even trying to hide it. Just came from a job, probably. Still glowing from the kill. But their smile’s too big. Too fresh. Flash instead of function. Not the Butcher.
Another one’s standing still at the edge of the room, nursing a drink that’s either untouched or ritual. Eyes on the exits. But there’s fear there. Just under the surface. They’re watching for someone. Not hunting. Hunted.
Not the Butcher.
I keep scanning.
There’s a group of off-duty mercs near the back booth, all swagger and tactical flirtation. Their laughter’s a little too practiced, like they’re all trying to forget something and doing it badly. One of them catches my eye and smirks like it’s a challenge. I don’t return it.
I don’t have time for amateurs.
I slide through the crowd. Watch the ripple I make. Measure the tension.
Nobody wants to get in my way, but a few try not to look like they’re moving.
That’s good.
Fear’s still a weapon I can use.
Then I see her.
Movement near the second bar. Not flashy. Not slow. Just precise.
A figure in dark clothing. No obvious weapons. No obvious tells.
She’s watching people with a gaze that isn’t greedy or curious—it’s clinical. Surgical. Like she’s filing away weaknesses for later dissection.
She doesn’t sip her drink. She holds it. Steady. Balanced.
Like a decoy.
I don’t approach.
Not yet.
Because the second you assume you’ve found what you’re looking for?
That’s when someone puts a blade in your ribs from the left.
So I drift.
Keep her in my periphery.
Make a lap around the perimeter. Let the air hit my skin, feel the sweat from the crowd, the vibration in the floor through my boots.
The club pulses.
And I listen.
Not to the music.
To the rhythm beneath it.
The language of predators.
Then I notice someone.
A human woman—tucked off to the side near the rec corner, where the smoke curls looser and the lighting’s got that yellow edge like an interrogation booth trying to flirt. She’s playing darts, and it’s not the game that catches me. It’s the precision.
She throws like it’s business.
Not flash, not bar-crowd hustle. No pump-fake gestures or overly theatrical aim. Just lift, flick, hit. Dead center. Dead center. Dead center.
Every single time.
She moves like someone who doesn’t need to impress.
Like every part of her body already knows where it’s going and why.
Her grip is relaxed. Her feet are planted like she’s used to standing her ground.
Her eyes? Focused—not on the people around her, not on the attention she’s drawing—but on the board. The mark. The target.
That says discipline.
That says training.
But it doesn’t say Butcher.
Not yet.
Because the galaxy’s full of people who can throw a dart and still die stupid.
I clock it. File it away.
Mark her as interesting but unlikely.
She could be ex-military. Or just ex-someone.
The kind of woman who left the wrong place with the right skill set and nowhere to put it anymore.
She doesn’t wear armor, doesn’t carry herself like she’s spoiling for a fight, but there’s something in the economy of her motion that sets my instincts humming.
She wins. Quietly. Doesn’t crow about it. Her opponent—a rail-thin Bolari with more tattoos than brain cells—grumbles, offers a rematch, and she just nods once and resets the darts.
I turn away.
Back to the bar.
Don’t need to let curiosity get in the way of clarity.
The bartender’s still there—piercings gleaming, arms folded, jaw working like she’s chewing gum or threats.
“You again,” she mutters.
“Me still,” I correct, sliding back into my seat.
She nods toward the dance floor. “You find what you’re looking for out there?”
“Still looking.”
She pulls a glass. “Same poison?”
“Stronger.”
She grins without smiling and pours something dark and opaque. It hisses when it settles, like it’s trying to tell me secrets. I take it without asking what it is.
It tastes like regret dipped in engine grease. Good vintage.
I stay still.
That’s the trick.
You don’t chase people like the Butcher.
You wait.
You breathe. You listen. You let the scene settle around you like oil over water. You stop making ripples.
Because anyone worth finding?
They notice stillness.
They notice the one person in the room not trying to be seen, but seeing everything.
So I watch.
The dart woman keeps playing. Keeps winning. Switches up techniques slightly each round—not to show off, but like she’s adjusting calibration settings. Gathering data. Seeing how the board responds, how her wrist compensates. She’s running tests mid-game, and no one around her even notices.
That’s not casual.
That’s methodical.
A few others take my interest briefly—a pair of gamblers near the slot lounge who argue too quietly, a bouncer who watches one particular booth more than the others, a server whose tray never dips even when shoved. But none of them move like they’re capable of vanishing after tearing a crew apart.
The music shifts. The crowd thickens. New faces arrive. Energy spikes.
The dart woman takes a break. Steps back from the game. Sips a drink that’s been sitting for at least a round. She’s not drunk. Not even buzzed. She’s been sipping slow, measuring her intake.
Another tick in the “maybe” column.
But not enough.
Not yet.
I don’t chase ghosts unless they bite first.
I lean back. Let the thrum of the club flow past me—sweat and smoke and sound pounding in waves. My glass catches the light and fractures it. Voices blur into heat. Bodies move in tides.
And I wait.
I order a drink and wait, letting time do what time always does: reveal who’s pretending and who’s built for pressure.