The station corridors narrowed as Jarek sprinted toward Dock 7, each step clanging against the grated flooring. Flickering signs overhead promised exotic liquors, off-world entertainment, and "discount" cybernetics that would probably kill you within the week. Neon light bled across the damp metal walls, distorted by the haze of coolant steam leaking from broken conduits.
The hum of the reactor was louder here — deeper, almost like a warning growl in the belly of the station. His breath came fast, ragged, but he didn't dare slow down. Behind him, heavy metal boots pounded in a steady rhythm, a mechanical heartbeat of pursuit.
Brass Fang collectors didn't give up. Ever.
> [System notification: Current balance – 54,000 e-credits.]
[Luck: 0]
[Luck Mission: Survive current encounter without dropping below 20,000 e-credits.]
[Reward: +1 Luck.]
The glowing text flashed in his vision. His jaw tightened. So it wasn't just purchases — the System had missions. Goals. Tasks to manipulate him into making the right plays.
Dock 7's security door loomed ahead, circular and rust-patched, its paint long since eaten away by the corrosive station atmosphere. A bored docking clerk in a stained jacket sat slouched behind a desk, scrolling a cracked datapad.
Jarek slammed a transfer of 1,000 e-credits into the clerk's account before even speaking.
The man's eyebrows rose at the notification ping. "Name?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter," Jarek said. "Just get me through."
> [Transaction complete.]
Rebate multiplier: 4×.]
Refund: 4,000 e-credits.]
Balance updated: 57,000 e-credits.]
The System's cold, emotionless efficiency was starting to feel like a lifeline.
The clerk swiped a keycard, and the heavy door groaned open. "Bay Two. But you didn't hear it from me."
Jarek slipped inside, the smell of stale oil and ozone hitting him immediately. Ships of all shapes and repair states were moored here, most held together with weld patches and hope. Bay Two housed a squat, ugly cargo hauler painted dull gray. The hull plating was dented, its ID markings burned off.
Perfect.
He scanned the small hangar for crew. No one in sight.
Then—
A loud clang echoed from the maintenance platform above. He looked up. A young woman with cropped silver hair and a plasma torch in one hand peered down at him. Her boots were braced on the railing, her face smeared with grease.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said flatly.
Jarek hesitated, plasma pistol still heavy in his grip. "I need a ride. Now."
She snorted. "So does half the station. What makes you special?"
The pounding footsteps behind him answered for him.
The hangar door at the far end banged open, and two Brass Fang enforcers stepped in, their glowing optics locking onto him immediately.
The woman's eyes flicked from them to him, calculating. "You're trouble."
"Yeah," Jarek admitted, "but I can pay." He sent 10,000 e-credits to her wrist chip.
> [Transaction complete.]
Rebate multiplier: 2×.]
Refund: 20,000 e-credits.]
Balance updated: 67,000 e-credits.]
Her eyes widened at the ping, then narrowed in suspicion. "You're either rich or insane."
"Both," he said, stepping toward the ramp.
The enforcers charged, servos whining. Jarek fired twice — the blue plasma bursts lighting up the hangar — but they ducked behind a cargo crate. The shots melted through the metal, filling the air with scorched polymer fumes.
"Move it!" the woman barked. She sprinted for the cockpit, slamming controls with practiced speed. The hauler's engines rumbled awake, coughing out clouds of exhaust.
Jarek dived aboard just as the enforcers rounded the crate. One fired a shock-round — a blue arc of electricity that scorched the ramp behind him.
The hauler's ramp clanged shut.
Inside, the deck vibrated as the ship lifted. A moment later, the entire structure shuddered, and the view outside the cockpit shifted from rusted walls to the black sprawl of space.
He slumped into the co-pilot's seat, adrenaline still flooding his veins.
The woman shot him a side glance. "Name's Kael. You're paying for fuel, food, and hazard premiums. And if you bring your metal-jawed friends to my ship again, you're walking home in a vacuum suit."
Jarek's lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Deal."
> [System notification: Luck Mission complete. +1 Luck.]
[Luck: 1]
The glowing text faded from his vision, but the implications stayed. Luck mattered. Luck determined the multiplier. And with every risky move, his earnings potential would spike.
The thought made him lean back and close his eyes, just for a second.
Then the console beeped. Kael swore under her breath.
A holo-display lit up in the center of the cockpit. A Brass Fang logo spun slowly in the air — a grinning wolf's head rendered in sharp, golden lines.
"Jarek Venn," a deep voice drawled through the comms. It wasn't a threat. It was an announcement. "You've made a very expensive mistake."
Kael killed the channel with a hard jab of her finger. "Who the hell did you piss off?"
Jarek stared out at the drifting asteroid belt ahead, the memory of brass teeth and cold eyes burning in his skull. "Someone who doesn't let debts go unpaid."
Kael snorted. "Then you're not safe here." She tapped the nav screen, a star map blooming in pale light. "We're headed to Blackridge Station. Outer rim. If you've got business there, fine. But if they track you, you'd better have more than a fancy pistol to keep us alive."
Jarek checked his balance again: 67,000 e-credits.
Enough to run. Enough to buy options. But not nearly enough to be untouchable. Not yet.
And the System… the System was the only reason he was still breathing.