The irksome whirring of the ship was softer beneath the layers of insulated bulkheads. The storage closet—Sloan’s temporary quarters—was small, cluttered, and not any more private than a shared bunk with a faulty curtain. She hadn’t done much to settle in. There wasn’t much to settle into.

  She sat on the edge of the cot, elbows resting on her knees, staring at the overhead light. For some reason, the light over her room had a yellowish tint to it, in contrast to the whiter shade in the other lounges. The brightness of the screen in front of her was reduced to minimum, and the faint light from diagnostic readouts cast dull blue patterns across her face.

  If only before her eyes were the sterile, fluorescent corridor of the 11th floor of McPherson Dynamics. That corridor, so precisely organized and bathed in clinical light, led to her personal office. White with the occasional black stripes, it was outfitted with a holographic swivel chair that adjusted to her every whim, and a transparent work table embedded with a digital interface that projected her day’s schedule in 3D. On one wall, a framed hologram—her own candid smile captured during a rare moment of joy amidst endless deadlines. Her holographer had told her to smile for the camera.

  In a discreet compartment built into the desk, she kept another, more personal photo. Of her and her family. Her father appeared every bit the emblem of quiet authority, etched with fine lines of disappointment and unfulfilled expectations. Her mother was nowhere to be seen.

  Not on this photo, nor on any other.

  She tried to imagine the moment her father learned that the woman he never fully trusted had become a criminal—a killer—what kind of expression would he have had? His eyes would narrow, scrutinizing every misstep in her life, and the familiar stern tone that once attempted to guide her would turn into a sharp reprimand, laden with regret. The very idea would shatter the delicate veneer of order he clung to, leaving him to wonder where his daughter had strayed from the path, and whether the chasm that separated them could ever be bridged again.

  “Look, Dad. I’ve climbed the ladder higher than you ever could,” she’d once told him, her voice steady and defiant. Now, that declaration lingered on her like a perpetual bitterberry on the tip of her tongue. But it stung less than the answer he’d given her.

  “Qualified people must’ve been rarer lately.”

  She was probably not as qualified, not as smart as she believed she was. Mura must have tracked her activities. Catching her in the act with this rogue crew was just the final piece of irrefutable evidence to secure her downfall.

  The quiet creak of the door broke her from her thoughts. She didn’t look up. “Didn’t peg you for the checking-in type.”

  Priest leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. The light from his visor clashed against the subdued lighting from above like they were in a game of tug-of-war, casting his irises into a murky veil of refracted color. “You have not slept.”

  Sloan exhaled, rolling her neck. “I’m like 100 years past curfew already.”

  “You are thinking about something.”

  She snorted. “Your years of experience as a strategist are really shining through.”

  Priest didn’t react, which made it worse somehow. Of course he didn’t. Stoic bastard.

  A silence stretched between them, and for once, Sloan wasn’t in the mood for it.

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  She shifted, glancing at him. “Do you remember that awful lunch spot near the transit hub?”

  Priest tilted his head slightly.

  Sloan continued, half-smiling. “Back when you were still a logistics officer. You used to grab lunch from there all the time. Swore up and down they had the best fried rice in the district. What’s the name . . .”

  Priest was quiet for a second longer than necessary. Then, evenly, “It was good fried rice.”

  Sloan huffed out a quiet laugh. “It was overpriced fried rice, for something so synthetic.”

  “I did not say it was affordable.”

  Sloan leaned back against the wall. She figured a more relaxed stance would make him less in-guard. “I remember you making me try it. I think that was the only time we ever sat down for lunch together.”

  Priest studied her, then said, “You did not complain about the food at the time.”

  Sloan snorted. “No, but I did complain about the company.”

  “Only once.”

  “Loudly.”

  Priest huffed. Almost a laugh. Almost.

  Sloan shook her head, staring at the ceiling again. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”

  Priest didn’t disagree.

  The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Sloan let it sit for a while before sighing. “You’re really not gonna let me stay up in peace, huh?”

  Priest didn’t move from the doorway. “Not my problem if you sleep or not.” A pause. “I figured you would need it.”

  He reached into his coat, then tossed something her way. Sloan caught it out of reflex, blinking down at the small, foil-wrapped packet in her palm.

  Protein ration. One of the better ones.

  Sloan glanced at him again. “Thanks.”

  He just gave a slow nod, pushing off the doorframe. “Alright.”

  He turned to leave, but just before he stepped out, Sloan’s voice stopped him. “Hey, Dakarai.”

  Sloan rolled the ration between her fingers, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her voice was casual, or at least she had tried keeping it as casual as it could be. Priest had told her long ago that it didn’t work, and that she was always halfway between a joke and a threat, like she couldn’t decide whether to amuse or unsettle.

  “You know, I could’ve made things a lot harder for you back on Kestris.”

  Priest paused in the doorway, turning just slightly.

  Sloan continued, tilting her head. “I could’ve locked down the impound tighter.” She flipped the ration packet. “Instead, I made sure the Black Fang was somewhere retrievable. I kept my men off your backs when I could. I wasn’t trying to be your enemy.”

  Priest didn’t react at first, and his grey eyes grew even hazier as they hid behind the adjusted brightness of the visor. Then, after a beat, he exhaled.

  “No point sweet-talking me. We are in this mess together, no matter what.”

  Her lips curved into a half-smiled as she stretched her legs out. “See, I prefer allies to co-conspirators.”

  A pause. Then, almost offhand, he added, “Especially with your name in the drive.”

  Sloan’s fingers stilled against the ration packet.

  Priest continued, “If you really want to be an ally, it might be a good time to tell us what you actually know.”

  Sloan’s grip on the ration eased. “I told you. I don’t know anything else.” She rolled the packet between her fingers. “What good do you get from this?”

  Priest said, “It helps us solve the mystery.”

  “Not that.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “What good do you get from solving mysteries for this crew?”

  Priest didn’t answer right away. If he had one at all, it wasn’t immediate.

  “More than what I got from you,” He finally replied as he shifted back toward the hallway.

  Now that’s venom. He still has it in him.

  Sloan didn’t argue. She just let her half-smile linger as the door slid shut behind him.

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