The surge fades as quickly as it came. Nyx exhales—a sharp, electric breath that cuts through the silence—and her head tilts forward, slow and deliberate, like a machine recalibrating. Her neon lines settle back to their violet hum, the green flicker gone, though a faint afterglow lingers in her eyes. She rests her gaze on the scratched steel of the bar counter, fingers curling slightly.

  The bar, moments ago a riot of noise, is now a held breath. The cyborg raider freezes mid-roar, tankard hovering. The bounty hunter’s whetstone halts, her glowing eye narrowing. Faces turn toward Nyx, fear and confusion rippling through. Some bolt for the exit, boots pounding the cracked marble.

  In the far corner, Torvox stands apart, squat and broad, his weathered face half-hidden by a tangled beard, obsidian eyes glinting. His massive axe—rune-etched, red code pulsing—rests in one hand, a mug of amber brew in the other. He sips, staring, intrigued where others flinch.

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  A hooded figure whispers to another, who slips out the back. Nyx scans her wrist on the counter, a beep signaling payment, then stands abruptly and strides out, purple hair swaying, eyes fixed on nothing. She steps into a shadowy alley, hooded shapes lurking at the far end.

  The bar door bangs open. Torvox stumbles out, axe slung over his shoulder, mug sloshing, voice slurring, “Oi, lass, ye owe me a dance!” His eyes are sharp, flicking to the threat. He grabs her arm, yanking her into a well-lit alley, whispering, “It’s not safe. We must leave now.”

  He pulls her to his compact starship—rugged, hovering on a blue energy beam, twin seats flanked by weapons. He drops the act, vaults in, and jabs at her seat. “Move it!” Nyx slides in, eyes sharpening. He slams a button, a capsule seals them, and the craft rockets off, a lightning-laced streak into the sprawl.