Slip out the way I came.
The night swallows me whole.
I melt into the night, boots kissing rusted metal and stained concrete. Glimner’s arteries pulse with crime—steam hisses from sewer grates, shadows shift in doorways. Somewhere, a woman screams. Somewhere else, someone laughs at it.
This place never sleeps. Doesn’t even blink.
I take back alleys, stick to the darker veins of the city. Less eyes. Less noise. There’s no alarm yet. The senator’s guards won’t find the body until morning, maybe later. The way I left it—hell, they might think it was natural at first.
The credstick’s heavy in my pocket. Clean transfer, top-tier coin. Could disappear for a year, maybe two. Drift between planets. Pick up side work. Drink somewhere warm. Find a reason to forget.
But I never do.
I stop beside a rusted vendor stall. The owner, a one-eyed Vakutan, nods once. He knows me. Or knows the kind of man I am. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask. Just sells me a bottle of Garlisfire and goes back to pretending he doesn’t live on a dying rock held together by corruption and blood money.
I take a swig. The liquor burns hot down my throat, a familiar ache that doesn’t do a damn thing to dull the voice in my head.
Used to be I didn’t think about the jobs after they were done.
Now… sometimes they linger.
Not the faces. Not the names. Just the silence that follows.
I keep walking. Past a strip of clubs glowing with pink and blue haze, past a row of dead-eyed girls in glass booths pretending they’re enjoying themselves. I glance at one. She flinches.
I look away.
I didn’t come from money. Didn’t come from much of anything. Kalei was war-torn when I was born. A planet of soldiers. My blood was sharpened before I ever learned to speak. Loyalty was measured in kills. Compassion got you left behind.
Mercenary life suited me. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t care who wanted who dead. You hire me, you get results. That was the rule.
Still is.
But lately… something’s shifted. Small things. My knife doesn’t slide quite as clean. I notice more than I should. I’m starting to care what happens after.
That’s dangerous.
I pause under a flickering streetlight, watching two Kiphian boys kick a half-broken drone across the alley like it’s a game. Their laughter echoes. Pure. Honest. The kind I haven’t heard in years.
One of them stops and stares at me. His eyes go wide. He nudges his friend and they scatter like leaves.
I can’t even blame them.
To them, I’m a monster in a leather jacket. A hired blade. A ghost that walks through war zones and leaves silence in his wake.
I finish the bottle and toss it in a trash bin already overflowing with someone else’s regrets.
Petru will want to talk. Throw a party maybe. Show me off like some exotic animal that just brought down a senator. He’ll have his lies ready. His offers. His strings.
But I don’t belong to anyone.
I never have.
The truth is, I’m tired. Not in my bones. In my head. My soul, if I’ve still got one. There’s a weight I can’t shake lately. The kind that makes me wonder what happens when all the contracts run out.
What’s left for a man like me when there’s no one else left to kill?
The street curves, leads toward the Spine—Petru’s fortress dressed up as a palace. I can already see the glow of it in the distance. Hear the pulse of music, the fake laughter.
