Night doesn't fall like it used to.
It bleeds out.
The sky oozes from orange to violet to void, washing the world in a dim, flickering silence. The desert holds its breath, waiting for something to go wrong. It usually does.
I crouch behind a sand-scoured generator about thirty feet from the old pump station. The place looks like a broken rib cage now—rusted metal, collapsed roofing, the skeleton of a world that used to matter. I can make out four shapes inside: three standing, one slumped. The girl.
She's still alive.
Barely.
One of the men standing guard has a scrap-built rifle slung across his chest. The weapon hums faintly—some kind of hybrid tech. The kind of noise that tells you it'll fire once, loud and dirty, and probably catch fire after.
He's posted up near the front, half-asleep. I could end him now, quick and clean. But he's not the problem. Not yet.
I wait. The desert wind returns—carrying the scent of ozone and sweat. I shift my weight forward, boots sinking into the dust. My knife glints in the moonlight, muted and eager. My hand's steady. Breathing shallow.
Then I hear it.
A laugh.
High-pitched. Nervous. It breaks the quiet like a bottle smashing on stone. Someone's trying too hard to seem in control. Inside, the voices rise—men talking, a woman's voice cutting in. Something about "leverage."
It's not a camp. It's a negotiation.
Or worse—a sale.
I move low across the sand, hugging shadow. A broken solar car gives me cover as I inch toward the side of the station. The windows are shattered, glass buried in grit. I peek through one of the few panes still intact enough to see through.
The girl's chained to a pipe. Mid-teens, maybe seventeen. Dirt-caked skin, bruises blooming along her jaw and temple. Her wrists are bound in rusted cuffs. One leg is bent at a bad angle. She's conscious, but just barely.
I see a man leaning over her, back turned to me. He's speaking low, taunting her. I don't catch the words. Doesn't matter. The posture says enough.
My jaw tightens.
I could kick the door in. Start carving. Take my chances with blood and bone.
But I've learned better.
I circle wide instead, slipping around to the broken rear entrance. Hinges scream in protest as I ease the door open, but no one hears. Too much noise inside. Too much ego.
I slip in and crouch behind stacked crates. Empty water jugs and torn ration packs litter the floor.
And then—I hear a voice that turns my blood to ice.
"You always were a ghost, weren't you?"
I know that voice.
Ava.
My pulse spikes. She steps into view from the far end of the room, weapon drawn, blue eyes fixed on where I'm crouched. She hasn't seen me yet—not fully—but she's aiming.
I step out slowly, hands raised halfway. My rifle's slung behind my back now, knife sheathed. "Wasn't trying to hide," I say. "Just deciding if you were worth the bullet."
Her expression doesn't change. "Still dramatic, I see."
The men with her look up—one's already reaching for a gun. Ava raises a hand. "He's not here to fight," she says calmly. "If he wanted us dead, we'd already be bleeding."
I glance at the girl—still cuffed, still barely holding on.
"What is this?" I ask. "Some kind of slave market?"
Ava rolls her eyes. "Don't be dense. The kid's a hacker. Caught her breaking into old cache systems near the outer rim. She's got something the Federation wants."
"So you're handing her over?"
"I'm surviving," Ava snaps. "Something you never learned to do properly."
The air between us hardens.
She walks closer, weapon low but not holstered. Her hair's shorter now, streaked with dust. The scar on her jaw is new. The years haven't been kind—but they've kept her alive.
"You don't get to lecture me," I say. "Not after what happened to Charles."
Her eyes narrow.
"You think I sleep easy with that?" she hisses. "You think I don't wonder every night if we could've done something different?"
"Then say it," I say. "Say he didn't die because someone in your crew sold him out."
Silence.
Then—
A cough. Dry and ragged.
The girl lifts her head.
"He's not dead."
Every eye in the room shifts.
She swallows hard, lips cracked. "Charles. The Federation has him. Sector 12. I was trying to break in."
Ava's jaw slackens. "That's not possible."
"I found files," the girl continues. "Old transfer logs. Deep storage facility. They're keeping him for something."
I step toward her. "What's your name?"
"Rey."
I kneel beside her. "You sure it was him?"
She nods once. "Full name. Picture ID. Logs cross-referenced with prison codes. They're keeping him in something called Deep Reserve. He's alive."
Ava turns away, running a hand through her hair.
I feel it in my chest—a deep, pounding echo. The past cracking open like a fault line. Charles. Alive. And buried in the Federation's darkest vault.
"What were you planning to do?" I ask Rey.
"Break him out," she says, like it's obvious. "But I didn't get that far."
Ava stares at the ceiling. Then—slowly—she starts to laugh. Quiet at first. Then bitter. "You gotta be kidding me."
I look at her. "This changes everything."
"Or kills all of us," she mutters. "But fine. If we're doing this, we need a plan. And real gear."
I nod.
"We start at first light."