The Dead Orbit wasn’t a bar. It was a test. A pce where the neon lights flickered like they were dying on purpose, where the music sounded like a cybernetic stomach cramp, and where the beer was consumed mainly to avoid having to ask questions. The air was thick with sweat, oil, and substances no bartender would ever dare pronounce.

  Doran Kallen entered like a shadow with a license to keep his mouth shut. His gaze swept across the room. Noted everything. Commented on nothing. Some of the patrons gnced at him. None held his stare.

  He moved to the bar—each step heavy as judgment. His flight suit looked less like clothing and more like rejected tank armor. Without a word, a gss was pced in front of him. Some kind of clear liquid. Ambitiously imitating rocket fuel.

  He took a sip. No expression. Then, quietly:

  “If I shoot someone in the next few minutes… please refill this.”

  Draven Carter came in second. He didn’t fit in here— Which made him perfect for the pce.

  His medic coat was nearly clean. His eyes, exhausted. He looked like someone who’d saved too many lives to still have one of his own.

  He didn’t go to the bar. He chose a table with a direct view of the exits. One hand rested on his medkit. Not from fear— But because experience told him: someone’s going to need help soon.

  He didn’t speak. The bartender didn’t either. They just exchanged a nod.

  That’s how respect worked here: Eye contact. Silence.

  Kara “Rogue” Veran entered like a walking threat. The bar felt her before it saw her.

  Her clothes were dark with intent. Her eyes scanned the room like a predator pretending to be tired.

  She spotted Shade. Then Carter. Didn’t sit with them. But not far either.

  Just far enough for the distance to feel like a deliberate statement.

  The bartender slid her a drink. Strong. No questions. No order needed.

  Between sips, she thought:

  “This isn’t a crew. This is a penal colony without a warden.”

  Sienna “Scrap” Voss didn’t enter. She detonated into the room.

  Grinning. Soot on her face. A backpack that couldn’t decide whether it was a toolbox or a felony. Her voice way too loud for this establishment’s tolerance settings.

  “Wow! Smells like childhood in here—broken, hot, and a little dangerous!”

  She waved. Carter offered a tired smile. Rogue raised one eyebrow. Shade pretended to evaporate.

  Sienna took a seat right in the middle of everything. Like a fre of curiosity, grime, and terminal social confidence.

  Jerik “Bcksheep” Taris arrived st. He moved like a story: One involving three deaths, a burning love letter, and some barbed wire.

  His coat smelled of oil, smoke, and long-term disappointment. His eyes caught Rogue’s—just for a second.

  But it was enough.

  “Oh no. My type,” she thought. “Oh no. Her type,” he thought.

  He sat near Carter. Not directly next to him. Just close enough to create a clean line of fire.

  Subtle. Practiced. Unrehearsed.

  Then the back door opened.

  Silence fell like a velvet curtain. A man entered.

  Smooth clothes. Holographic smile. Too elegant for this pce— Like a credit scammer at a funeral.

  “My friends… welcome.”

  His voice was silky. No accent. No fw.

  He was the kind of man you didn’t notice— Until you realized your ship had been sold without your knowledge.

  “I’m just a merchant. You don’t know me—and that’s a good thing.”

  He threw a projection onto the table.

  A container appeared. Bck. Sealed. Pyro system.

  No questions. Just credits. Too many credits.

  “You’ll deliver this. Together. In one shuttle. Only he”—he gestured at Shade— “...brings his ship. The rest ride along. Someone has to be responsible, after all.”

  Silence.

  Gnces exchanged. Gsses clinked faintly.

  Shade raised his gss.

  “Wonderful. Always dreamed of transporting morally ambiguous strangers.”

  Scrap grinned. Rogue drank. Carter sighed. Bcksheep nodded. Once. Sharp.

  No one said no.

  Outside, the void waited. Silent. Bck. Ready to punish every decision they were about to make.

  CHAPTER END