Scales Make Three

Chapter 1

SABLE

The air in Glindora stinks like ambition and burnt sugar.

It’s loud, sticky, and full of bad decisions. It’s also the only place on Novaria Prime where you can get what I’m looking for.

I don’t belong here. Not in this part of town. Not anymore.

But the Dolce & Goblonnox Velvra-9s are rumored to have surfaced, and I’d walk across plasma to get them.

My compad buzzes again, angry and insistent on my wrist.

JACEY [9:31PM]:

Girl. Tell me you are not in Glindora. You said you were going home. If you die over shoes I am not doing your funeral lashes.

I flick the message away without answering. If I text her back, I’ll lose my nerve. And besides, I already had lashes done last week. She knows this.

My boots—sensible, matte-black with reinforced soles—make a soft crunch on the grit underfoot.

Glindora’s alleys are the kind of places where the grime never leaves, it just mutates.

I keep moving past glowstick-peddling teenagers, a guy selling unlicensed tattoos from a folding chair, and a stand selling something called “bio-churros” that I don’t dare investigate.

Two turns later, the alley widens into a narrow cul-de-sac wrapped in LED vines and sketchy art installations made out of scrap circuit boards.

Tucked into the back wall is a storefront with no name, no windows, and one buzzing sensor door.

Just a black steel panel with a pulsing red dot in the center.

This is it.

The boutique.

I press my hand to the panel.

It scans my palm—doesn’t ask my name, doesn’t offer a greeting—and the door slides open with a sound like a mechanical hiss telling me to keep quiet.

Inside, the shop is cold, dark, and smells faintly like ozone and old velvet. Light panels glow along the floor, casting just enough illumination to see the racks—glittering, chaotic, all clearly illegal.

A thin woman stands behind the glass case at the far end, her arms folded like she’s permanently unimpressed. Her hair is coiled in gold wire, and her irises flash with aftermarket prism tech that makes her look like a snake in heat.

“You walk or window?” she asks, her accent clipped and manufactured.

I nod once. “Walk.”

“First time?”

“No.”

She gestures me forward. I approach, not even bothering to look at the other displays. I know what I came for.

And there they are.

The Velvra-9s sit under the glass like a holy relic.

Gleaming chrome heel with the iconic upward twist. Shimmer-reactive fabric in a shade of burgundy so dark it looks black until the light catches it.

Double ankle straps with tiny D&G insignia clasps.

They look untouched, like time paused the moment they were boxed.

“I heard they were seized,” I murmur, crouching slightly to see them better.

“They were,” the woman replies. “Customs lost the manifest in a fire.”

Of course they did.

I straighten. “How much?”

She names a figure so obscene I feel it in my ovaries.

I hesitate for exactly one heartbeat.

“Done.”

My bank node pings in protest as I transfer the funds, but I ignore it. Money comes and goes. Beauty, however—beauty haunts you. And these heels? They could resurrect the dead and have them begging for styling appointments.

The woman unlocks the case and retrieves the box with reverence. “You don’t want a bag.”

“No,” I say, tucking the box under my arm like it’s a newborn. “I want everyone to know.”

She snorts and waves me off.

Back outside, the air hits me like a warm slap. I head back the way I came, slower now. I can feel eyes on me, like the district senses weakness in my swagger. But I don’t care. I’ve got the shoes. I’ve got the damn shoes. If someone tries to rob me, they’re getting a mouthful of stiletto.

I pass the same churro cart—still not brave enough to look closer—and then the alley tightens again into the bottleneck between two stacked apartment blocks. I hear the sound of broken glass crunching under someone else’s step, but I don’t turn my head. Tourists flinch. Natives keep walking.

Then—just ahead, off to the right—I hear it.

Raised voices.

Two male. Aggressive, sharp.

I pause, hand tightening on the box.

“—told you I needed more time—”

“That’s not how Otto does business.”

Otto?

My breath catches.

Before I can take another step, plasma fire lights up the alley.

A single bolt. Quick and brutal. The hiss-snap of it sizzles through the air, echoing off concrete and neon.

I stop. Dead in my tracks.

The scent hits me a second later—ionized air and something sharper underneath. Something that smells like a welding torch and the end of someone’s life.

I don't move. I don’t breathe. I just stand there, heart pounding, fingers clenched tight around the shoebox, afraid to turn my head.

I duck instinctively, knees folding fast as I sink behind the side of a rusted refuse bin, heart thudding in my ears like a drum line on stimulants.

The box presses into my chest—Dolce & Goblonnox, now a stupid luxury anchor. I hold it tighter anyway, like clinging to a dream makes it real.

There’s a chain-link fence ahead, bent and peeling, with gaps where the metal's rusted away completely. I crawl toward it, grit scraping my palms, the alley’s wet filth seeping into my leggings. The scent is stronger now—burnt copper and scorched ozone, like a dying machine.

I find a crack wide enough to see through and press my face to it.

Two figures. One on the ground, one standing tall and too relaxed for what he’s just done.

The guy on the ground is barely more than a heap now—human, trembling, clothes ragged and hands lifted in a last-ditch, pitiful gesture of mercy. His voice warbles, thin and desperate. “Please, Saul, I’m beggin’ you, just gimme another week—Otto don’t have to know, I swear—”

The name hits me like a spark. Saul. Otto. This isn’t some random alley shakedown. This is Nine business.

And the one towering over him—oh stars, he’s even worse than I imagined.

Saul is Grolgath, all lumpy lavender skin and overconfident posture.

His suit looks like it was designed by someone hallucinating luxury: gleaming gold pinstripes, electric blue trim, and lapels that could double as weapons.

He’s chewing gum, blowing a bubble like he’s bored to tears.

He’s not looking at the man like a killer—he’s looking at him like a parking ticket.

Then I see what’s in his hand.

It’s not a gun. It’s worse. A white orb pulsing with pink light—the kind of pink that doesn’t belong in nature. A micro fusion block. No trigger. No aim. Just energy and instant regret.

My breath catches in my throat.

“Too late, slug,” Saul says, his voice pure sleaze wrapped in smug. “Uncle Otto says no more chances. Makes us look soft.”

He tosses the gum aside and activates the fusion block.

The man on the ground doesn’t even have time to scream properly. There’s a whump of energy, then a light so hot and bright it stings my retinas through the fence. The sound is like metal screaming—then silence. Nothing left but a smear on the pavement and the echo of a life erased.

I gasp.

It’s instinctual, too sharp, too loud.

Saul’s head whips up. He squints. Looks toward the fence.

My heart explodes in my chest.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

I don’t think—I move.

Shoebox be damned—I fling it behind me, the corner catching the edge of the bin with a crunch. The heels go flying, a sparkling burgundy arc in the neon dark.

Sorry, darlings.

I bolt.

My boots slam into the wet ground, splashing filth behind me as I run like every mistake I’ve ever made is chasing me.

My lungs burn, my legs scream, but I don’t stop.

Glindora’s narrow alleys blur past—flashes of gaudy lights and oblivious bystanders.

I slam into a vendor’s cart, send glowing fish crackers flying, and keep going.

People shout after me, angry, confused. I don’t look back.

Somewhere behind me, a voice calls out—deep, slurred. Saul? Someone else?

I don’t wait to find out.

Sirens wail.

Real ones. Authority-grade.

Blue arcs of light cut through the haze up ahead. A patrol hover lifts off from a roof, drawing a sleek circle above the block like a predator bird.

I hit the next turn, nearly fall, grab a railing, and pivot down a side stairway that dumps me onto a lower service corridor. It smells worse here—wet synthfur and alley stew—but I barely register it. My whole body’s gone full survival autopilot.

A wall of black-and-silver uniforms block the exit.

Law enforcement.

Alliance Police.

I try to stop, but momentum carries me straight into one of them. The officer grabs me before I can fall, his visor reflective, unreadable.

“Citizen, stop. You match a fleeing profile from the Glindora incident. Are you armed?”

“I’m—what? No, I—”

Another officer flanks me, weapon holstered but hand ready.

“I saw it,” I blurt out. “He—he killed someone! A micro fusion block, just murdered him—”

“Name?” the first officer barks.

“Sable. Sable Jackson. I—I just wanted shoes—”

“Take her in.”

I flinch. “Wait, what?! I’m the witness!”

“You’re the only breathing person on scene,” the second one says, pulling a scanner out. “Let’s keep it that way.”

They don’t cuff me. They don’t have to. I’m too shaken to resist.

The next hour is a haze.

Bright interrogation room. Table that smells like sterilizer and old desperation. Commandant Lazarus appears on a screen—not in person, of course. Vakutan male, leaner than most, all ridged and polished and pissed off that he has to deal with me.

“Miss Jackson,” he says, voice like gravel soaked in bureaucracy. “You saw the execution?”

“I saw it all,” I say. “Through a fence. The guy begged. Then boom. He’s gone. The killer’s name is Saul—he said Otto sent him.”

Lazarus nods slowly, as if confirming something awful. “The Nine.”

“I don’t want to know what that means,” I mutter.

But I do. I do know. Everyone does.

The Nine run the kind of syndicate that makes other crime lords flinch. They’ve been operating on Novaria for decades, and most people pretend not to see it. But once you see it? You’re on their radar. And they never blink.

The room falls quiet.

Then Lazarus leans closer to the screen. “We’re putting you into protective custody.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re now the only living witness to a Nine-ordered execution. We’ll move you offworld, fake ident, deep cover. You’ll have a new job, new place, new—”

“Stop.” I hold up both hands. “Absolutely not.”

“Miss Jackson—”

“I said no! I’m not going into hiding like some damsel in a soap opera. I have a life. I have a job. Clients. Rent. Jacey will kill me if I bail on her. Do you know how hard it is to rebook wedding parties on short notice?!”

Lazarus’s brow ridges shift—maybe confusion, maybe constipation. Hard to tell with Vakutans.

“You’d rather be a dead stylist than a living asset?”

“I’d rather be me, thank you very much.”

There’s a silence. Then he sighs.

“You are legally permitted to refuse protection. But I’d advise you to reconsider.”

“Duly noted. Still no.”

Another officer leads me out.

Outside, Novaria’s lights feel colder than usual. Everything’s too bright. Too fake. Like the world shifted half a degree to the left while I wasn’t looking.

I walk fast. Head down. Shoulders tight.

I’m not going into hiding. That’s not who I am.

I’m Sable Jackson.

I do not disappear.