“This planet has a really weird-looking moon,” whispered Gravel as he looked up at the sky from the narrow walkway overlooking the civic district of the undercity.

The moon, with its fractured surface, loomed over Orkash. Priest, watching the display flicker on the security screen, exhaled slowly. “A Republic Aratos warship aimed a planetary suppression beam right at the surface, but the defense systems intercepted it mid-fire. The energy ricocheted off the atmosphere and tore into the moon instead.” He tilted his head. “Left it scarred ever since.”

Hunter, standing a few paces away with arms crossed, smirked. “That’s the most I’ve seen you talk without stopping this year.” She kept her position near one of the station’s maintenance conduits, appearing casual but with a direct line of sight to Priest. It was the kind of spot that let her keep an eye on both the unfolding situation and any unexpected variables—without drawing attention from passing civilians.

Fang, stationed half a mile away in a secured relay point, would monitor their movements through a private channel.

They caught Sloan’s movement. The undercity was not a place of official business, yet Sloan had always been a fixture in its shadows. Priest had suspected as much—before she held an official title, her dealings had always leaned toward the dubious. Political power didn’t erase old habits; if anything, it only refined them. Officially, she came here to monitor the district’s stability, but Priest knew better—she had always preferred handling things off the books, keeping close to the power brokers who operated outside the law. Guarded by three officers armed with sleek shock rifles even off duty, she moved through the district with the same quiet authority she once had in less sanctioned circles.

Priest stood inside a repurposed maintenance hub, overlooking a key intersection near the civil administration building, the dim light of the reactivated security feeds flickering across his face. From Gravel’s position crouched near an access hatch, checking the last of the remote detonators he'd bought off-market, he had a clear line of sight to Priest’s tense posture. Meanwhile, Fang and Hunter prepped the docking bay from a secondary control station—ready to trigger their contingency plan should things go south, ensuring Sloan’s forces wouldn’t leave the district in one piece.

Gravel narrowed his eyes at him and asked, "How do you even know we’re not on official records yet?"

Priest exhaled, tilting his head toward the screen. “Because Sloan’s always handled things under the table. When she has a grudge, she doesn’t let bureaucracy get in the way. She’s keeping this personal—means she’s keeping it quiet, too. I’m betting on her still being the same person I knew.”

“We going in?” Asked Hunter, fingers tapping on her laser gun.

“Going in,” Gravel confirmed. He slipped from his position, sticking to the shadows. One of Sloan’s officers glanced over his shoulder—instinct, but not enough. Gravel was already behind him. A quick, precise movement: one hand over the mouth, the other wrenching the officer’s shock rifle free. A silent takedown. He eased the unconscious man into an alcove, stripping the charge pack from the rifle.

Hunter was next. She passed through the thinning crowd, subtle but purposeful, stepping into the path of a second officer. She twisted his arm, yanked him off balance, and slammed him into a rusted maintenance panel. He was out.

Priest moved last. He stepped from the maintenance hub just as the third officer turned toward him. The guard reached for his weapon, but Priest’s cybernetic hand flicked up. A pulse of compressed gravity hit the man’s center mass, dragging him forward. His feet left the ground for half a second before slamming into the pavement. Dazed, he barely had time to choke out a sound.

Sloan’s feet had already left the ground when she realized something wasn’t right. Priest’s cybernetic hand remained outstretched, fingers barely twitching as the gravitational field wrapped around her, lifting her effortlessly into the air. She twisted, reaching for her sidearm, but the pressure shifted, forcing her arms stiffly away from her body.

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“Didn’t freeze anybody this time,” Gravel chuckled to himself.

For the first time, her expression cracked. Not fear—annoyance.

“Dakarai,” she muttered, voice tight. Suspended a few feet off the ground, she angled her head, catching sight of her unconscious guards. “Clean work. You trained them well. This gravitational technology . . . where’d you get it from? Vyleri?”

“Vyleri,” Priest replied.

“You’ve travelled far.”

“Out and about.”

Sloan clicked her tongue. “Would love to get out of Kestris for once. But I’ve chosen this life, I suppose.”

Gravel stepped in close, keeping his stolen rifle trained on her. “You’re awfully calm for someone getting kidnapped.”

Sloan let out a slow breath, leveling her gaze at Priest. “I want to set up a deal with you, Dakarai. Like old times. You’d have the entire enforcement wing of the city breathing down your neck, not just my personal detail otherwise. You know that much.”

Gravel scoffed. “Don’t slime your way out of this. I saw you trying to call security on us back at McPherson’s vault.”

Sloan’s smirk returned. “Then you saw wrong, Captain of the Black Fang.” She flexed her fingers, as much as the gravitational hold would allow. “Years of running outside the system have left you all too jumpy. You think every movement, every word is a trap.”

“Oh?” Gravel’s eyes lit up as he turned to Hunter. “She knows me as the Captain! Told ya, I’m the one building our rep!”

Hunter groaned.

“What’s the deal?” asked Priest.

Sloan didn’t hesitate. “I need dirt on my superior. Something that can push them out, get me off this planet and into a Republic position.”

Gravel’s response was immediate. “Nope. We’re not touching the Republic with a stick.” Also, last time, what she said was different. She affirmed she had better hackers than Vanje, but if she did, she wouldn’t need the Black Fang for such a mission. She could just do it herself.

Sloan’s smirk didn’t waver. “You already have. McPherson’s vault? Their records? There are Republic names in there. Have you heard of Shiya Mura?”

Gravel replied, “No clue.”

Priest’s expression didn’t shift, but his fingers twitched slightly. “The name’s come up.”

“Mura oversees the Republic’s economic enforcement branch. I’m not getting into details here. Not when I’m floating like a balloon.”

“You want us outlaws to do the dirty work for you,” Hunter said.

Sloan’s tone was even. “You’re already ghosts on their records. And I already know Dakarai’s capable.”

“That’s why you set me up,” Priest scoffed.

“Think whatever you want. I’m afraid you don’t have a choice here,” Sloan said. “You think you can get away with disappearing a high-ranked Kestris official?”

Gravel set his jaw, but something gnawed at him. The way Sloan was playing this—it wasn’t just an offer. It was a trap he might’ve already stepped into. His first instinct was to walk, but if she really did have Republic names buried in McPherson’s records, then what? How long until they became targets for something bigger than her scheming?

Then Fang’s voice crackled over the comm in his ear. “Boss, you’ve got too many eyes on you. Can’t tell if it’s casual or someone’s watching, but you need to move.”

A few passersby had already slowed, shooting wary glances their way before hurrying off. No one had raised an alarm yet, but that wouldn’t last.

Gravel exhaled through his teeth, eyes darting around. “You’re lucky we don’t have time for this.”

Sloan smiled. “Lovely doing business with you.”

Priest flicked his fingers, easing the gravitational hold. Sloan’s boots hit the ground lightly, but Gravel could see the satisfaction in her stance. She’d won this round.

“Hurry off,” Sloan waved them away. “Now I’ll have to come up with a convenient lie for the mess you caused.”

Gravel scoffed. “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t wait for Sloan’s response, turning on his heel and motioning for the crew to move. Priest fell into step beside him, Hunter a few paces behind, keeping an eye on their backs.

“Would love you to join me over tea this weekend, Dakarai,” Sloan rasps, a hint of cheer threading through her voice. “I’ll drop you a coordinate. Here’s my contact.”

Sloan flicked her wrist, and a faint blue holo-glyph shimmered into existence above her palm. With a casual motion, she snapped her fingers, sending a pulse of light toward Priest’s comm. His interface beeped as the data embedded itself—a secured frequency, encoded with a shifting encryption key.

Priest saved the data with a flick of his eyes.