Chapter 5
VALTRON
The tunnels breathe stale metal and lost time, and then spit us out into the crush of the Dextra hover market like we’re a secret they meant to keep buried.
The light stings. Not sunlight—this sector never sees that—but the artificial burn of xenon floodlamps that hover overhead, painting everything in a sterile, gray-blue wash.
People move like ants on uppers, everyone yelling over each other.
Smells clash—grease, ozone, hot oil, boiled fungi, someone cooking meat that definitely doesn’t come from anything farmed legally.
Rhea shuffles close to me, shoulders hunched. I can feel the vibration of her body against mine. She’s trying to act casual, but her breathing’s tight and shallow. I don’t blame her.
I clock the threat before my second inhale.
Odex.
“Don’t look now,” I murmur, just low enough for her to hear. “We’ve got a tail.”
“What kind of tail?”
“The kind that ends with your organs on a collector’s shelf.”
She stiffens beside me. “Lovely.”
“Odex mercenary. Lone operator. Shatterweave coat, mirrored optics, shaved scalp. See him by the insect vendor, ten meters back?”
She fakes a yawn and glances. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“You think he’s after me?”
“No. He’s after the data. You’re just collateral.”
“Wonderful.”
“We can’t shake him out here. Too many civvies. Need to divert. Fast.”
I grab her hand and yank her through the crowd.
She stumbles once—heels not made for this terrain—but I catch her.
We pass a vendor shoving glowfruit into customers’ faces, a trio of goblin-kin singing pirate shanties, and a man getting tattooed by a hovering syringe-bot.
I clock the perfect spot: a dive bar etched into the ribs of a gutted cargo hauler.
The sign buzzes overhead: HULL brEACH.
Fitting.
I pull her inside.
It’s every bit the hellhole I hoped. Lights dim, booths slick with grime, air thick with sweat and disappointment. A bouncer the size of a boulder nods once, doesn’t stop us. Music thumps—slow, guttural beats you feel more than hear.
“Why here?” she asks under her breath, eyes scanning.
“Because it’s loud and dirty and full of degenerates. Nobody questions weird behavior here.”
“Weird behavior like dragging me into a bar while someone stalks us?”
I nod toward a half-shielded booth with enough angle to see the door and just enough cover to pretend we’re innocents on a date.
“Sit. Act close.”
She hesitates. Then she slinks into the seat, and gods help me, she slips onto my lap like it’s second nature.
“You better have a plan,” she whispers against my ear.
“Working on it.”
“You kiss me right now, and I swear to every deity, I will carve your name into my compad just so I can make a blacklist.”
“You still smell like sugarfruit,” I whisper, brushing my lips just above hers.
Her fingers tangle into the scales at the base of my throat. My whole body tightens, core heat rising like a storm surge.
“Valtron,” she warns.
“I’m not kissing you.”
“Good.”
“I’m just making it look like I might.”
“Well, make it quick—he’s coming in.”
I glance toward the bar’s entrance.
The Odex glides through like a shade. He scans the room, pausing only once—our direction. Just long enough to make the hairs on my nape lift.
“Keep your hands on me,” I murmur.
“What?”
“Odex target pairs. Lone wolves are a red flag. Couples, not so much.”
“Are you saying I make you look harmless?”
“I’m saying you make me look unavailable.”
She huffs, presses her cheek to mine. I feel her breath, hot against my jaw. Her hand slides over my chest, slow and theatrical. Too good.
“Convincing enough?” she purrs for show, voice syrupy.
“You’re killing me,” I say, voice tight.
“Better than the Odex doing it.”
I feel him move. Not with my eyes—my instincts. A shift in air, a break in noise.
“He’s close,” I mutter. “Don’t react.”
She goes still. I count three seconds. Four.
The Odex moves—and the world turns into a war zone.
There’s no warning. One heartbeat he’s standing, assessing, calm.
The next, the booth beside us erupts into fire and splinters.
A woman screams. A body flies. I shove Rhea down, shield her with my body as a blast rips the air where her head just was.
Tables flip, glasses shatter, and the hum of music dies in a strangled static screech.
“Move!” I bark, dragging her behind the smoking remains of a serving station.
She stumbles but finds her footing. “What the hell was that?!”
“Welcome to my world,” I growl. My left shoulder screams—torn muscle, deep scorch—but I bite it down. Pain’s a distraction. Rhea is the priority.
“I thought we were pretending to be lovers,” she pants, hair wild, cheek nicked with blood.
“He didn’t buy it.”
“Clearly!”
Another blast scorches the wall above us. She yelps, grabs my belt, yanks me lower. “This was your plan?”
“It worked until it didn’t.”
“You’re insufferable!”
“And you’re beautiful when you’re furious.”
She glares at me like she’s about to stab me with her shoe. “Are you seriously flirting while we’re being hunted?!”
“Multitasking.”
Her eyes narrow, but the corner of her mouth twitches—just a little.
I scan the wreckage. Odex is smart—sticking to shadows, keeping the angle. He doesn’t waste energy. He’s waiting for a clean shot. Surgical. That’s what makes them so dangerous. They don’t miss.
“Any chance you packed explosives?” I ask.
“What do I look like, a demolitions expert?”
“I don’t know, you’ve got that glint.”
She rolls her eyes but digs into her jacket and produces a compact fusion block. My brow lifts.
“Just for emergencies,” she says defensively.
“This counts.”
We hustle. I drag a barstool, rip off a leg, twist wiring around the metal. She wires the fusion charge with practiced fingers. Not elegant, but functional.
“You sure you’re just a news anchor?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “I’ve had a really bad week.”
We lay the trap.
I sprint left, tossing a flash grenade as I go. The room erupts in white fire. Odex moves—straight into our setup. Rhea hits the makeshift trigger. The floor buckles with a low groan and then—
Boom.
Gravity folds like paper. The Odex drops with a roar, his body disappearing through the collapsing deck. The hold beneath is full of squirming, bioluminescent eels—live, electric, pissed off.
Screams. Hissing. Then silence.
The room breaks into applause.
“Best damn entertainment in years!” someone yells.
“Is it on the menu?” another hollers.
We don’t stay for autographs.
I grab Rhea’s hand and bolt through the service door, lungs burning, vision flickering. The pain in my shoulder’s a firestorm now.
“You’re hit,” she gasps.
“No time.”
“I said—you’re hit.”
I sag against the alley wall, dragging a hand down my chest. Blood. Too much.
“Dammit, Valtron.” She’s already at my side, ripping open her pack. “Sit. Down. Now.”
“You ordering me around?”
“Yes! Sit your seven-foot ass down or I swear I’ll tase you.”
I slump with a grunt.
She tears open a cloth packet, douses it in alcohol. “This is gonna suck.”
“I like a little pain.”
“Good. You’re about to be thrilled.”
She presses the cloth to the wound. I bite back a roar.
“You with me?” she asks.
“Still here.”
“You better stay that way.”
She works fast, efficient. No wasted motion. Her fingers tremble, but only a little.
“You’re good at this,” I mutter.
She snorts. “I took a trauma aid course. Once. For a segment.”
“Remind me to thank your producer.”
Silence stretches as she patches the wound, her touch softer now. She won’t meet my eyes.
“You’re gonna get me killed,” she murmurs.
I reach for her hand, catch her wrist before she pulls away. “Then I’ll die keeping you alive.”
She freezes.
That moment holds—like breath, like gravity, like fire waiting to burn.
And I know.
She’s not walking away from me this time.
Neither of us is.