The lower decks of Alfa Station were nothing like the glittering upper rings. Crowded walkways wound between stacked slum houses of patched plasteel and scrap wiring, neon signs flickered in alien scripts above stalls peddling black-market goods, and the air was thick with the stench of oil, ozone, and grilled street food.
Forty years ago, Emery remembered these levels being rough but livable. Now, it was something else entirely. With the endless wars raging across the Magus realms, Alfa's council had directed the vast tide of refugees here. The numbers were staggering. Families camped inside gutted freighters or stacked shipping containers, others inside houses built from broken hull plates, patched with rags and resin. It was a living sea of desperation.
