The asteroid outpost, known as Refuge Theta, was little more than a waystation—a cluster of reinforced metal domes built into the rock, barely surviving in the vacuum of space. A few automated defenses kept pirates from taking it over, but it was neutral ground, open to anyone with the credits to pay for supplies and repairs.

Rust and his men arrived in bloodstained armor, their bodies still running hot from the slaughter at Halric’s stronghold. The station’s crew, a mix of mechanics and traders, wisely kept their heads down as the soldiers stalked through the corridors. They refilled power cells, restocked on rations, and patched up their wounds in silence.

Rust stood near the central hub, rolling his shoulder as the nanoblood worked through the last of his injuries. His mind was already on Halric. The bastard had slipped away in the chaos, but Rust would find him. It was only a matter of time.

Then the merchant arrived.

The docking bay doors groaned open, and Edric Varn stepped in, flanked by a dozen armed guards. He was tall, draped in a fine, reinforced coat, the kind that only high-end traders or minor nobility could afford. His eyes flicked over Rust’s men with barely concealed disdain.

“This station is mine for the night,” Varn declared, his voice smooth but commanding. “My crew needs rest, and I don’t want my men sharing space with a bunch of undisciplined butchers.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Silence filled the room. Rust’s men froze, some exchanging glances, waiting to see how he’d react.

Rust smiled. A slow, dangerous thing.

“You want me to leave?” he asked, stepping forward.

Varn squared his shoulders. “That’s right. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done—this is neutral ground. I have business here, and I don’t need your kind making a mess of it.”

Rust exhaled through his nose. Amusement. Disbelief.

Then, in a flash, he moved.

Before Varn’s guards could react, Rust closed the distance. His hand clamped around Varn’s throat, lifting him clean off the ground. The merchant gasped, struggling, his fingers clawing at Rust’s grip. His guards shouted, raising their weapons—

But Rust’s men were faster. Guns cocked. Blades gleamed. Varn’s men found themselves outmatched, outgunned, and surrounded in an instant.

Rust tilted his head, watching Varn squirm. He could feel the man’s pulse hammering beneath his fingers.

“You don’t need to care who I am,” Rust murmured. “You just need to know that I don’t take orders.”

He squeezed. Varn choked. His legs kicked in the air.

“Rust,” one of his soldiers said. A reminder. A question.

Rust glanced at them, then back at Varn.

He threw the merchant across the room. Varn crashed into a stack of crates, coughing, gasping for breath.

Rust rolled his shoulders. “You can keep your men here,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

Varn looked up, dazed, his face red from lack of air.

“But,” Rust continued, voice dropping to something low and final, “if you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll gut you where you stand.”

A long silence. Varn’s men, once so sure of themselves, looked terrified.

The merchant didn’t argue. Didn’t speak. Just nodded, rubbing his throat.

Rust smirked.

“Good,” he said. “Now get out of my sight.”