The bar reeked of spilled liquor, sweat, and desperation—a familiar cocktail in the dim, neon-lit depths of Eris Station. This wasn’t a place for the clean or the cautious; it was for those willing to trade their last credit for a lead or a drink, and often both. Hanjoon leaned back in his chair, the synthetic leather creaking softly beneath him. One hand rested loosely on a cold bottle of Drelkan ale, the other close to the hilt of a knife strapped beneath the table. His long coat hung around him like a shroud, the hood casting a deep shadow over his face, hiding the faint glimmer of golden eyes that marked him as *not entirely human*.
He wasn’t blending in—his kind rarely did—but the unspoken rule here was simple: trouble found you when you went looking for it, not the other way around.
Around him, the low hum of conversation ebbed and flowed, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the metallic clink of credits changing hands. Voices carried fragments of rumors, dangerous whispers buried under layers of drunken boasting.
“…another Syndicate raid in the outer rings. Heard they’re after something old—Precursor-level tech.”
“Precursor? Don’t buy it. They just want control. The tech’s probably a smokescreen.”
“Maybe, but they’re throwing around big credits. Wouldn’t mind risking my neck for that kind of payout…”
Hanjoon’s ears tuned to the hum, sifting for anything useful. The Starward Syndicate had a way of getting everyone talking—and disappearing anyone who talked too much. He tapped a finger idly against his bottle, his expression unreadable beneath the hood.
A grizzled man at the next table leaned forward, his tone dropping conspiratorially. “...spotted the Black Pallidian’s ship out near Kelvran. Thought he was just a story. You think he’s real?”
Hanjoon smirked faintly but didn’t move. He’d heard it all before—legends woven around his deeds, half-truths whispered in the dark corners of places like this. Some stories were ridiculous. Others, uncomfortably close to the truth.
The door to the bar hissed open with a wheeze of hydraulics, letting in a rush of recycled station air tinged with ozone and machine oil. Hanjoon’s eyes flicked to the figure silhouetted in the doorway. Short, slim, and armed with an attitude that practically crackled in the air around her, Sela strode in like she owned the place. Her dark braid swayed as she crossed the room, her boots echoing against the metal floor.
Hanjoon leaned back further, tipping his chair on two legs as Sela slid into the seat across from him. “Joon,” she said, resting an elbow on the table and grinning. “Still alive, huh? Guess I owe someone fifty credits.”
“Nice to see you too,” Hanjoon replied, his voice dry but warm. He tipped his bottle toward her in a mock toast. “I was starting to think you’d bailed.”
“Fashionably late,” Sela countered, propping her feet on the table despite a glare from the bartender. She pulled a battered datapad from her jacket, setting it on the table. Her grin faded, replaced by a sharp seriousness. “Figured you’d want to see this.”
Hanjoon’s casual demeanor vanished. He leaned forward, the dim light catching the faint gold in his eyes. The datapad flickered to life, displaying fragmented reports and grainy images. Star maps glowed faintly on the screen, overlaid with Syndicate trade routes and bursts of encoded transmissions.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“It’s about the Syndicate,” Sela said, her voice low. “They’re moving something big—bigger than anything they’ve done before. Rumors say it’s tied to Precursor tech. Ring any bells?”
Hanjoon’s jaw tightened as his thoughts flicked to the map and the sphere aboard the Wildflower. The pieces were starting to fit together, though he didn’t like the picture they painted. “Maybe,” he said cautiously. “What’s your angle?”
Sela’s grin returned, sharp and predatory. “Half the payout and dinner. That’s my angle.”
Hanjoon shook his head, amused despite himself. “Still running the same game, huh?”
“Hey, it works,” she said with a shrug. “So, are you in or not?”
Before Hanjoon could answer, the datapad beeped softly, a fragment of a Syndicate transmission flashing on the screen. His sharp eyes scanned the text, parsing its meaning. It was a lead—a dangerous one.
He sighed, setting the datapad aside. “Half the payout means convincing Magnolia to part with her shiny things.”
Sela leaned forward, intrigued. “How’s the noblewoman-turned-treasure-hunter?”
“Still not interested in women,” Hanjoon quipped, smirking.
“Neither am I,” Sela shot back. “I’m into goddesses.”
Hanjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s doing fine. Excited about the trouble we’re heading into—she thrives on chaos.”
“And you?” Sela asked, arching an eyebrow. “What keeps you sticking around? Besides the shiny things, of course.”
Hanjoon’s smirk softened. “Someone’s gotta make sure she doesn’t burn down the universe.”
Sela laughed, loud and unapologetic, earning a few side-eyes from nearby patrons. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”
Before Hanjoon could respond, his eyes flicked to the smudged viewport overlooking the bustling station corridor outside. Magnolia stormed past, her lilac hair vivid against the drab metallic backdrop, her expression sharp with purpose. She moved quickly, cutting through the crowd like a blade, her heavy boots striking the deck with the kind of finality that demanded attention.
Sela followed his gaze, her laughter fading into curiosity. “That her?”
Hanjoon was already rising from his chair, tossing a handful of credits onto the table. “Something’s up.”
Sela leaned back in her chair, watching as he adjusted his coat and moved toward the door. “Let me guess—this is the part where you go chasing after her like a loyal pup?”
He paused just long enough to glance back at her, his golden eyes glinting. “This is the part where you decide if you’re coming along or staying here with your half-empty drink.”
Sela grinned, pushing herself to her feet and grabbing her datapad. “Lead the way, Pallidian. Let’s see what this goddess of yours is up to.”
Hanjoon didn’t wait for her to catch up, stepping through the bar’s door and into the cacophony of the station. Ahead of him, Magnolia was a determined streak of lilac and leather, her magic subtly flickering in the air around her like a storm waiting to break.
Sela fell into step beside him, her curiosity evident as she studied the woman weaving through the crowd ahead. “So, what’s the bet? Treasure hunt gone sideways or a shiny thing someone dared to touch?”
“Could be either,” Hanjoon replied, his tone even, though his pace quickened. “Could be both.”
Sela snorted. “I like her already.”