DAY 62 — 07:02 (SHIPTIME)
The Union coasted on minimal thrust, a dark shape against darker space—no bright flares, no casual pings, no radio chatter that said we're here to anyone patient enough to listen.
Below, the moon was a dead coin: gray, cratered, and scarred by old industry. A long-abandoned salvage yard clung to one hemisphere like a scab—collapsed gantries, broken rail spines, half-buried hull ribs, and the rust-brown stains of propellant spills that had frozen into history.
Dack sat inside the Dire Wolf cockpit while Lyra brought them in on instruments alone. The mech was powered down to standby, but the frame still felt alive beneath him—like a beast that knew it was being guided into a place where teeth mattered.
He watched the faint altitude crawl on the external feed, listened to the Union's deck plates groan softly as landing systems warmed, and let the ritual rise once—only once.
"Sixty-two," he said.
Then he shut it away.
Lyra's voice slid into his ear on the private channel. "Touchdown in four minutes. I've picked a pad shadow inside the main yard bowl. It'll keep us masked from line-of-sight."
"Copy," Dack said.
A beat. "Before we land," Lyra added, "we should move her."
Dack didn't ask who. He didn't have to.
He keyed shipwide internal. "Bay. Now. Everybody."
---
The mech bay smelled like coolant, scorched insulation, and hot metal that had been asked to do too much and did it anyway.
The captured Atlas still hung overhead in restraints—mag clamps biting into armor plates, chain lines taut to anchor points. It dominated the space the way an assault mech always did, even when it couldn't move. The cockpit seam was a thin black line.
Dack stood under it in his black pilot suit, helmet tucked under one arm. Jinx leaned near the Highlander, bright-eyed and restless. Taila waited by her Griffin, posture tight. Morrigan lurked in the shadow of her Marauder, arms crossed like the world offended her. Rook and Rafe stood at the edge of the workbench with tools already laid out in perfect symmetry.
Quill was the only one who looked like she'd been carved into place—pressure suit partially unzipped at the collar, helmet in hand, eyes fixed on the Atlas like she was afraid it would vanish if she blinked.
Dack tilted his head up. "Open it."
Rook and Rafe moved at the same time. No discussion. No wasted words.
They rolled a maintenance platform under the Atlas, climbed, and went to work on the cockpit seam—manual release points, bypassing old security locks without triggering anything that would turn the bay into a furnace. Rafe's hands worked the left side; Rook mirrored on the right. Their voices came out like one sentence split in half.
"Latch—" Rafe murmured.
"—free," Rook finished.
A hiss of pressure equalization. Then the cockpit canopy cracked and rose.
For a moment nothing moved.
Then a woman unfolded from the darkness with slow, deliberate control—tall, composed, wrapped in a dark underlayer suit that looked like it had never known cheap fabric. Her hair was tied back neat. Her face was calm.
Her eyes were not.
Those eyes took the bay in with a single sweep—mechs, people, exits, camera angles—like she was cataloging assets.
Dack didn't give her room to speak.
"Down," he said.
She looked at him and smiled slightly, as if he'd said something funny.
"You're taking me out of my machine," she murmured. Her voice was smooth. "Brave."
"Practical," Dack said. "You're in the way."
Jinx snorted and stage-whispered, "He's so romantic."
Taila shot her a look. Morrigan looked like she wanted to bite someone.
Lyra's voice came over bay speakers, calm and cold. "All bay cameras are live. Audio is recording."
The woman's gaze lifted, finding the nearest camera lens, and her smile sharpened as if she enjoyed being watched.
Rook and Rafe guided her down the platform steps, not touching her like she was fragile—touching her like she was dangerous. Quill moved closer without thinking, hand half-lifted.
Dack's eyes flicked to Quill. "Stop."
Quill froze. "Dack—"
"Stop," he repeated. Flat.
Quill's jaw tightened, but she obeyed.
The woman reached the deck, boots soft on steel. She stood under the Atlas like she belonged there more than the ship did.
Dack stepped in close enough to make the rules obvious. "You get a room. Locked. You stay in it. Cameras on you. Lyra watches. If you try anything, you lose privileges."
She tilted her head. "Privileges."
"You wanted out," Dack said. "This is out."
Her eyes slid over his face like she was trying to decide what he was. "And you think a door keeps me safe."
"Door keeps my crew safe," Dack corrected. "Different thing."
That made her laugh—quiet, pleased. "You are Ronan's."
Dack didn't react. "Move."
Morrigan fell in behind her like a shadow with teeth. Jinx followed, too cheerful. Taila stayed close to Dack, watching the woman's hands. Rook and Rafe hung back, already thinking about the Atlas restraints they'd need to re-check once the cockpit was empty.
Lyra met them at the corridor junction—black flight suit, helmet tucked under her arm, calm eyes on the prisoner.
"This way," Lyra said.
The room wasn't luxurious. It was a private cabin that had been stripped down to nothing that could be used as a weapon: bed bolted to the deck, small hygiene unit, a desk, no loose fixtures, a camera in every corner, and a second lock—manual—on the outside.
Lyra stepped aside. "Inside."
The woman paused at the threshold, as if she enjoyed the moment. "You're the pilot," she observed.
Lyra didn't answer that. "Inside."
The woman walked in, unhurried, and turned slowly to look at each of them—Dack, then Jinx, then Taila, then Morrigan, then Quill lingering at the hall edge.
Her eyes lingered on Quill with something that wasn't quite affection and wasn't quite ownership.
Quill stiffened like she'd been struck.
Dack watched it, stored it, said nothing.
Lyra shut the door and engaged both locks. The camera indicator light above the frame glowed steady.
"On watch," Lyra said. "Her audio is live. If she says anything useful, I'll flag it."
Dack nodded once. "No one talks to her alone."
Jinx lifted a hand. "Does that include flirting?"
Dack looked at her.
Jinx grinned wider. "Okay, okay."
They left her in the locked cabin, watched by Lyra's cams, the ship's quiet hum, and whatever patience lived behind her calm eyes.
When they returned to the bay, the Atlas hung empty—still massive, still restrained, but suddenly less alive. Dack preferred it that way.
"Touchdown in ninety seconds," Lyra said.
Dack turned toward the mechs. "Mount up."
---
The Union landed inside the salvage yard bowl with its ramps tucked into shadow and its heat signature shaved down to the bare minimum. Dust—fine gray regolith—lifted and drifted in slow sheets, taking its time to settle in the moon's weak gravity.
The ramp dropped.
The Dire Wolf came down first, heavy feet biting into powder that puffed outward like smoke. It didn't sink much—old yardcrete and compacted grit held. Behind it, the Highlander followed with a steadier, heavier gait. The Griffin came next, lighter on its feet, and then the Marauder, long-armed and predatory.
Dack didn't waste time admiring the yard.
It was a graveyard of industry: broken DropShip ribs half buried, crane spines snapped and leaning, container stacks fused into ugly shapes by old fires. A line of gutted aerospace fighters lay like dead fish in a trench, canopies blown, guts stripped. A skeletal hangar frame jutted from a crater rim like a broken jaw.
Good place to hide.
Good place to die.
He keyed the lance channel. "Perimeter. Jinx, ridge. Taila, center. Morrigan, far flank. Don't wander."
"Copy," Jinx said, cheerful as always.
Taila's reply came quieter but solid. "Copy."
Morrigan: "Yeah."
Rook and Rafe rolled down in a small yard-crawler, sealed cab, tool racks strapped down. They wore hard vac gear with magnetic boots, moving like they belonged in wreckage. Dack watched them for a heartbeat—two figures in sync, heads turning the same way as they scanned for hazards.
They headed for a cluster of half-buried hulks where old ferro-fibrous plates still glinted under dust.
Lyra stayed aboard the Union, sensors throttled down, eyes on her screens—and on the prisoner's camera feed.
Dack turned the Dire Wolf's torso slowly, scanning.
No transponder chatter.
No drive flare.
Just dead rock and old metal.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
"Rook, status?" he asked.
Rook's voice crackled through. "Finding usable stock."
Rafe cut in a half-beat later. "Heat sinks. Myomer. Plate."
Dack nodded once even though they couldn't see it. "Mark it. Strip fast. We lift if anything changes."
Jinx's Highlander shifted on the ridge line, gauss rifle angled across the yard like a warning. "This place is creepy. I love it."
Taila's Griffin held closer to the crawler, PPC housing tracking slowly. Dack liked that. She was learning what mattered: protect the techs, protect the ship, protect the exit lane.
Morrigan's Marauder posted on the far flank near a broken gantry, its PPC arms hanging loose but ready. She didn't speak. She didn't have to. She watched like she was paid by the second.
Dack rotated again, and that was when he saw the first sign.
Not a mech.
Not a ship.
A shimmer.
A faint distortion against the black sky, drifting down toward the Union's landing shadow like a speck of dust that didn't belong in vacuum.
Lyra's voice snapped into the channel at the same time. "Contact above you. Small. Cold. No transponder."
Dack didn't hesitate. "Drone."
Jinx's laugh cut sharp. "Oh, that's cute."
Dack brought the Dire Wolf's right arm up, not rushing. His gauss rifle could obliterate it, but a gauss flash was a flash. He didn't want that.
He thumbed a different trigger—one of the Dire Wolf's lasers, lower output, controlled.
A thin lance of light reached up and carved the distortion out of the sky.
The drone popped into visibility for a split second as it died—black finned body, tiny sensor bulb, and a little spike of metal meant to embed and broadcast.
It broke apart in slow, lazy pieces and tumbled down into the yard dust.
"Rook," Dack said. "Find it. Now."
Rafe answered first. "On it—"
Rook finished. "—copy."
Taila moved her Griffin toward the impact zone, keeping her body between the crawler and open lanes.
Morrigan's voice came low. "They found us."
"Not yet," Dack replied. "They tried."
Jinx sounded almost disappointed. "Aww."
Dack didn't laugh. He watched the sky.
Because if there was one drone, there could be more.
Rook and Rafe reached the wrecked drone within a minute. Rafe crouched, gloved hands lifting a fragment carefully. Rook scanned with a handheld.
Rafe's voice tightened. "Passive beacon spike."
Rook: "Was going to tag the hull."
Dack's jaw clenched. "Can you trace it?"
Rafe: "No power—"
Rook: "—dead."
Dack exhaled once, slow. "Good. Strip what you can. Then back to work."
He wasn't done scanning.
And the yard answered him.
A heat bloom—small—far side of the crater rim. Then another. Then the faint ghost of ECM as someone tried to mask their approach without fully committing.
Dack felt it in his gut before Lyra confirmed.
"Multiple contacts," Lyra said. "Groundside. Incoming from the east trench."
Jinx perked. "Finally."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Hold fire until I say."
He pivoted the Dire Wolf, stepped forward into the open yard lane. If someone was coming, he wanted them looking at him—not the crawler, not Taila, not the Union.
Shapes crested the trench lip.
A Locust first—light mech, fast, twitchy. Then a Jenner, jump jets flaring faintly in low gravity as it hopped down into the bowl. A Panther followed, slower, PPC arm tracking. A Vindicator clomped in behind it, heavier and steadier.
Then the yard's far shadow shifted and something larger stepped out—heavy chassis, broad shoulders, twin PPC housings.
A Warhammer.
Dack watched it, eyes narrowing. A heavy mech in a scavenger pack meant one thing: they thought they owned this place.
The Locust broadcast a narrow-beam ping across the yard.
A voice followed on open band—rough, confident, too sure. "This yard's claimed. Salvage rights are ours. Power down and back off."
Jinx laughed out loud. "Who the hell are you?"
Taila didn't speak. Morrigan didn't either. She just angled her Marauder a few degrees—subtle, predatory.
Dack keyed his external speaker, voice rolling through the Dire Wolf's external systems like a threat with no emotion.
"Leave," he said.
A pause.
Then the voice again, harder. "You don't get to—"
Dack cut it off. "Leave."
The Jenner shifted, jump jets twitching like it wanted to dance. The Warhammer's PPC arms angled slightly higher, finding lanes.
Dack didn't call another warning.
He didn't want a long fight. He wanted them broken fast, quiet, and salvageable.
He keyed his lance channel. "Targets: Jenner and Locust first. Keep the Warhammer's legs. Do not cook their reactors."
Jinx: "You're no fun."
"Do it," Dack said.
"Copyyy," Jinx sang anyway.
Taila's voice came tight. "Copy."
Morrigan: "Fine."
The first exchange snapped the yard into violence.
Dack fired an LRM ripple—controlled, not a full storm—enough to force the Locust to break its line and the Jenner to hop sideways instead of committing. Missiles streaked across gray dust and punched into old container stacks, detonations throwing shards and debris like shrapnel.
Jinx answered with a gauss shot from the Highlander—one bright, brutal line. It tore through the Locust's torso plating and nearly split it. The light mech staggered, tried to pivot, then collapsed into the dust with a slow, ugly crunch.
"Oops," Jinx said, completely unapologetic.
Taila's Griffin fired its PPC once—blue-white flash, a clean bolt that struck the Jenner mid-hop. The Jenner landed wrong, leg actuators screaming, and it lurched sideways into a broken crane base.
Taila didn't celebrate. She tightened formation, keeping her mech between the crawler and the advancing Panther.
The Panther answered with a PPC flash of its own—bolt ripping past Taila and scorching the yardcrete near the crawler. Dust geysered up.
Rook and Rafe didn't panic. They moved the crawler behind a wrecked fighter fuselage, magnetic boots clanking as they hopped down to cover.
Morrigan's Marauder stepped into view on the far flank and fired a PPC. The bolt hammered into the Vindicator's shoulder plating, blowing armor away in a spray of bright debris. The Vindicator returned fire—laser rake and a missile burst that chewed at the Marauder's torso.
Morrigan didn't retreat. She angled, absorbing, then snapped a second shot that made the Vindicator hesitate.
The Warhammer chose that moment to commit.
Twin PPCs flashed, and the yard lit up like a strobe. One bolt struck the Dire Wolf's left torso armor—impact thudding through Dack's cockpit like a giant fist. Warning tones chirped. Heat climbed.
Dack didn't flinch. He stepped forward instead, closing distance to ruin the Warhammer's comfort.
He fired his AC/10—one heavy bark—and the shell punched into the Warhammer's left leg plating. Not enough to break it. Enough to tell the pilot where this was going.
The Jenner tried to recover, jump jets flaring again, aiming to get behind the Griffin and hit the crawler's cover lane.
Jinx intercepted it—Highlander shifting on the ridge, SRMs spitting in a short, nasty burst. The missiles hit the Jenner's side, tearing armor and sending the mech skidding in the low gravity dust.
"Stay down," Jinx said, delighted.
Taila added an LRM volley—not a spam, just enough—and the Jenner's damaged leg finally gave. It dropped hard to one knee, then tipped sideways, half-buried in regolith like a corpse trying to sit up.
The scavenger comm voice turned panicked. "They're— They're mercs—"
Dack didn't answer. He advanced on the Warhammer, forcing it backward into a field of broken containers that would limit its sidestep options.
The Warhammer pilot tried to keep range, firing lasers in a steady rake to build heat and pressure. Dack took it on armor and answered with a gauss shot timed between PPC cycles—one clean thunderclap inside the cockpit.
The round struck the Warhammer's right leg, tearing a chunk of armor away and exposing structure.
The Warhammer stumbled, just a fraction.
That fraction was enough.
Dack fired LRMs again—tight spread—and the missiles hammered the exposed leg plating. The Warhammer lurched sideways, actuator alarms screaming through its frame.
"Leg it," Dack said coldly on the open band. "Now."
The Panther tried to cover the Warhammer, PPC firing again toward the Dire Wolf's upper torso. The shot missed wide, slamming into an old DropShip rib and showering molten metal.
Morrigan pivoted and punished the Panther with a laser rake that forced it to step back, heat spiking.
Taila moved with her Griffin—disciplined, close—screening the crawler's cover as the Vindicator tried to push in and finish the techs. Taila's PPC flashed again, striking the Vindicator's chest plating. The Vindicator shuddered, backing off.
Dack brought the Dire Wolf's arm down and fired the AC/10 once more into the Warhammer's damaged leg.
This one mattered.
The shell tore through compromised structure, and the Warhammer's knee joint buckled.
The heavy mech dropped hard, one leg folding, the other scraping the yardcrete as it tried to stay upright. It didn't. It fell sideways in slow gravity with a crash that echoed through dead metal and dead rock.
The scavenger channel went high and panicked.
"Eject—!"
A seat blew from the Warhammer's cockpit, canopy exploding outward. The pilot rocketed up and away, drifting in low gravity like a slow flare.
Dack didn't shoot the chair.
He didn't need to.
This wasn't about bodies. It was about resources.
The Panther and Vindicator pulled back, suddenly unsure. The Jenner lay crippled. The Locust was dead metal.
Jinx's voice came sweet over comms. "We done?"
Dack answered flat. "Almost."
He aimed at the Panther's legs, not its torso, and fired a controlled burst—enough to strip armor and force retreat, not enough to start an internal fire. The Panther backed hard, stumbling over rubble.
The Vindicator followed, covering the retreat with a last messy missile burst that scattered in the dust and did nothing important.
Then they were gone—running back into the trench line, dragging their pride with them.
The yard went quiet again except for cooling metal and the soft hiss of regolith settling.
Dack held position for ten seconds, scanning for a second wave.
Nothing.
"Rook. Rafe," he said. "Status."
Rafe: "We're alive—"
Rook: "—no damage."
Dack: "Strip the Warhammer fast. Anything useful. We lift within the hour."
Jinx sounded pleased. "Ooh. New toys."
Morrigan's voice came clipped. "We should move. Their friends will come."
"They might," Dack said. "And if they do, we won't be here."
Taila's Griffin stayed near the crawler like a guard dog. Dack heard her breathing through comms—controlled. Not panicked. She'd handled it.
He didn't praise her. Not in front of everyone.
But he filed it away.
---
The next forty minutes were the kind of work that made merc life real.
Not glory. Not romance. Not screaming engines.
Just logistics and greed and time.
Rook and Rafe moved over the fallen Warhammer like surgeons, opening panels, pulling what mattered. They didn't waste time arguing what to take. They already knew.
Heat sinks. Myomer bundles. Gyro components. Armor plate chunks that could be reshaped. Spare actuators. A working targeting system.
They worked so in sync they barely needed words.
"Left PPC—" Rafe said.
"—mount intact," Rook finished.
"Ammo bins—"
"—dry."
"Actuator—"
"—good."
Jinx loitered nearby in her Highlander, watching with the kind of interest she usually reserved for trouble. "You two are terrifying."
Rafe didn't look up. "Correct—"
Rook finished, "—yes."
Taila stayed active, moving her Griffin through slow perimeter arcs, practicing lane control while the techs worked. Morrigan's Marauder held the far flank, silent and nasty.
Dack kept his Dire Wolf still but alert, sensors throttled down, eyes on the horizon. He didn't like sitting exposed. He liked leaving. But the parts mattered.
Lyra's voice cut in from orbit-side ship sensors. "No new signatures. But I'm still seeing that passive sweep pattern in the distance. It's not close. It's… waiting."
Dack's stomach tightened. "You sure it's the same?"
"Yes," Lyra said. "Same discipline. Same spacing."
So the drone hadn't been the only thing.
He stared at the trench line where the scavengers had retreated. Maybe they were just scavengers. Maybe they were bait. Maybe the observer had watched the fight and logged everything: mech silhouettes, tactics, weapon profiles.
Dack didn't like being cataloged.
He liked being the one doing the cataloging.
Rook's voice cut in, sharp. "Dack."
He keyed. "Talk."
"We found something," Rook said.
Rafe finished, "Not Warhammer."
Dack angled the Dire Wolf toward them.
They stood over a half-buried armored container wedged under a DropShip rib. It had been painted over three times, scraped, re-stenciled, then sandblasted by time. The lock plate looked old but intact.
Rafe tapped it. "Sealed."
Rook added, "Not opened."
Dack didn't get excited. Excitement got people killed.
"What is it," he asked.
Rafe: "Could be junk—"
Rook: "Could be gold."
Jinx's voice chimed in too quickly. "Open it."
Dack said, "Not here."
Morrigan: "Agreed."
Taila's voice was soft, almost hopeful. "Take it with us?"
Dack looked at the container, then at the Union's shadowed ramp in the distance.
"Load it," he said. "Crawler. Now."
Rook and Rafe didn't question. They rigged straps, used the crawler's winch, and dragged the container free with careful force. It scraped up gray dust in slow gravity and slid onto the crawler bed with a heavy thunk.
Lyra's voice returned. "Dack, I'm seeing a faint spike. Could be another drone. Could be debris. It's too far to confirm."
Dack's eyes hardened. "We lift."
Jinx protested, playful. "But I'm having fun."
"We lift," Dack repeated.
No one argued after that.
---
They boarded in order.
Dire Wolf first—heavy feet thudding up the ramp. Griffin next. Marauder. Highlander last, Jinx doing a little unnecessary swagger motion like she hadn't just murdered a Locust and crippled a Jenner.
The crawler came up with the sealed container strapped down like a prize.
Lyra sealed the bay doors the moment the last mech cleared.
Inside the Union, the atmosphere shifted—still tense, but controlled.
Dack stayed in his cockpit until the mech was locked in clamps. Then he climbed out, sweat cooling on his skin, and headed straight for Lyra's terminal.
"Show me the tail," he said.
Lyra brought up a faint pattern again—passive sweeps. Distant. Patient.
"Still there," she said. "No lock."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "So it watched."
Lyra nodded once. "Probably."
Dack's jaw clenched. "We don't dock. We don't light up. We drift to a second dead rock and crack the container there."
Lyra's gaze flicked to him. "And the prisoner?"
Dack didn't have to think. "Still locked. Still watched. You keep cams on her."
Lyra nodded. "Already."
Dack's next stop was the sealed container.
Rook and Rafe had it on the bay deck, surrounded by tools. They'd already started mapping the lock. Their faces were calm. Their eyes were hungry.
Jinx leaned in, hands on hips. "If this is boring, I'm going to be mad."
Morrigan stood back, arms crossed, pretending she didn't care while caring intensely.
Taila hovered close—shy curiosity, cautious hope.
Dack stopped beside the container. "Open it clean."
Rook: "Clean—"
Rafe finished, "—yes."
They worked for twelve minutes. No drama. No wasted motion. A lock plate came off. Wiring was bypassed. A seal broke with a soft hiss.
The container door swung open.
Inside was not cash.
Not weapons.
Not luxury.
It was the kind of thing mercs bled for: crates of spare components, myomer bundles vacuum-sealed, a rack of intact heat sinks, and—buried under foam—an old data core wrapped like someone had meant to come back for it.
Rafe lifted the data core carefully. "Storage—"
Rook finished, "—intact."
Lyra stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Let me see."
Dack held up a hand. "Later. We move first."
Jinx made an exaggerated groan. "You're the worst."
Dack didn't look at her. "I'm alive."
That shut her up in the way only truth could.
Taila's voice came out small. "This helps… right?"
Dack looked at her. Really looked.
"It helps," he said.
Her shoulders eased as if someone had taken weight off her spine.
Morrigan muttered, almost to herself, "Good."
Rook and Rafe began inventorying immediately, calling out parts in that half-sentence rhythm.
"Heat sinks—"
"—sixteen."
"Myomer—"
"—bundles."
"Armor plate—"
"—usable."
Dack watched them and felt something like relief creep in under the tension.
Parts meant repairs.
Repairs meant surviving the next fight.
Surviving meant c-bills.
And c-bills meant options.
Lyra's comm chirped softly.
She listened, eyes narrowing.
Then she looked up at Dack. "We have movement. Very faint. That distant pattern just… shifted. Like it's adjusting."
Dack's stomach tightened. "It smelled blood."
Lyra didn't disagree.
Dack glanced up at the Atlas restraints in the bay ceiling—empty cockpit now, still chained like a captured myth. He thought of the woman locked in her cabin under Lyra's cams, listening to everything.
He didn't like how neatly all of this fit together.
A tail in the dark.
A passive beacon drone.
A scavenger pack arriving fast, like they'd been nudged.
A sealed container waiting like bait.
Maybe the yard was just a yard.
Or maybe someone had left this place as a test, to see if Moonjaw would bite.
Dack didn't trust "maybe."
He trusted patterns.
He turned and headed back toward the Dire Wolf.
Lyra's voice followed him on private comm. "Dack… you want me to lift now?"
Dack climbed into the cockpit and sealed the hatch. The world narrowed again. The mech became his spine.
He stared at the sensor plot—a point of absence far out in the dark, passive sweeps tightening by degrees.
He spoke once, blunt.
"Yes," he said. "Lift. Now."
Lyra's reply was immediate. "Copy."
The Union's engines warmed under strict discipline—controlled, quiet, efficient.
Dack sat inside the Dire Wolf as the ship vibrated around him, and the day count pressed at the back of his mind like a bruise.
Sixty-two.
He didn't say it out loud this time.
He just watched the dark—because the dark was watching back—and promised himself one simple thing:
Whatever had sent that drone… whatever was behind that tail…
It would get close eventually.
And when it did, he would stop running cold.
He would stop being wreckage.
He would become teeth.