The night was thick on Kreith, a smog-choked sky suffocating the city below. The desert world never truly slept; secrets traded hands in the shadows while the ever-present howls of distant sandstorms whispered of buried sins. The air was heavy with dust, the dim glow of neon signs flickering through the haze, barely cutting through the gloom.
Larson Odell crouched behind the crumbling stone wall of an abandoned outpost, scanning the streets ahead. The job had gone too smoothly so far, and that made him uneasy. The data chip he was here to steal sat inside a high-security vault beneath the syndicate's compound—locked up tight, just waiting for a man like him to walk in and take it.
His gloved fingers flexed, itching for the grip of his pistol. But tonight wasn't about flashy shootouts. Tonight was about finesse.
He touched a finger to the comm at his ear. "Sinn, you seeing this?"
Static crackled for a moment before her voice came through—smooth, detached, laced with amusement. "Clear as a starry sky. You've got two guards at the front, but they're dumb as rocks. Perimeter's rotating in three minutes. That's your window."
"Then let's make it count."
Larson moved like a shadow, his duster trailing behind him in the faint breeze. The compound's entrance loomed ahead—reinforced steel, barely lit by overhead fluorescents. Two guards, just like Sinn said. He reached into his jacket, withdrawing a sleek, modified stun gun. One quick, silent shot—then another. Both men crumpled before they could register the threat.
He stepped over them, sparing them no more than a glance. They'd wake up in a few hours with pounding headaches and bruised egos. Nothing permanent.
Inside, the air was stale, the halls tight and claustrophobic. Dim bulbs buzzed overhead, their light casting jagged shadows against peeling walls plastered with old propaganda. Larson moved with purpose, slipping between corridors, each step deliberate.
The vault was nestled at the heart of the compound, a thick steel door bearing the insignia of the syndicate. Primitive lock, at least by his standards. He knelt, producing a compact hacking tool from his belt. The device hummed softly as it worked, small green numbers blinking across its screen.
Sinn's voice cut through his earpiece. "Don't get cocky, cowboy. You've got about sixty seconds before someone checks those guards."
Larson smirked. "Plenty of time."
The lock clicked. He slipped inside.
The data chip rested inside a glass case, illuminated under a soft blue light. Too clean. Too easy.
A trap.
His gut screamed at him a second before the red security lights flashed, an alarm blaring through the compound.
"Damn it," Larson muttered.
Sinn's voice sharpened. "I told you to move faster! You've got company. Get out, now."
He didn't hesitate. He smashed the glass, swiped the chip, and spun toward the exit, heart pounding. Boots thundered in the halls—reinforcements, armed and pissed.
Larson ducked into a side corridor just as a guard rounded the corner, rifle raised. No time to think. He moved on instinct—one fluid motion, drawing his pistol and firing before the man could react. A short burst of energy hit the rifle, melting the barrel in a violent spark. The guard stumbled back, cursing, but Larson was already past him.
"Sinn, tell me you've got an exit."
"Service door, west side. But you've got another problem."
"Of course I do."
"The syndicate's best hunter is on-site. Big, mean, and he doesn't miss."
Larson groaned. "Wonderful."
He barreled through the dimly lit corridors, heart pounding in sync with the blaring alarms. The exit was in sight, but so was the silhouette waiting for him—a tall, broad man blocking the doorway, rifle slung across his chest, confidence radiating off him like heat off a plasma coil.
"You've got nowhere to run, thief," the man said, voice low, measured.
Larson didn't waste words. He flicked his pistol up and fired. A precise shot—hitting the latch of the overhead maintenance panel just above the hunter's head. The hatch swung open, dropping a cascade of rusted tools and loose debris onto the man.
Larson didn't stick around to see the damage. He bolted through the service door, into the thick Kreith air, and sprinted toward the city's outskirts.
His comm buzzed. Torek's gruff voice cut through. "Lars, you got five minutes before I lift off with or without you."
"You wouldn't dare."
A short, humorless chuckle. "Try me."
Larson pushed harder, navigating the winding alleys, each turn bringing him closer to the hidden landing zone. The Broken Eclipse waited for him beneath a rocky overhang, its battered hull barely visible against the cliffs. The cargo ramp was already lowering.
Sinn stood at the entrance, arms crossed, smirking. "Took your sweet time."
"Shut up and let me in."
He leapt onto the ramp just as Torek kicked the thrusters into gear. The ship lurched upward, engines roaring as they climbed through Kreith's toxic atmosphere. Larson collapsed against a crate, catching his breath as the city shrank beneath them.
Torek's voice rumbled from the cockpit. "I swear, one day I'm leaving you behind."
Larson grinned, tossing the data chip onto the table. "But not today."
Sinn plucked it up, eyes narrowing as she turned it over. "You better hope whatever's on this is worth it."
Larson sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's the Syndicate. It's never just a simple job."
As the ship cleared the planet's orbit and the stars stretched out before them, he let himself relax—if only for a moment. He had a bad feeling about this one. And in his line of work, bad feelings usually meant trouble.
He just hoped this time, trouble wouldn't come knocking too soon.