The shipyard popped out of nowhere like an open wound.

  The coordinates led her to a cluster of rusted structures floating above a field of space junk: shattered hulls, ripped-out modules, stranded ships, and metal corpses drifting in slow, lazy circles like carrion in orbit.

  Neon signs flickered among the debris; some in languages no one remembered, some long dead, others trembling as if they were about to give up the ghost for good.

  The pirate pod dropped with a dry, cracking thud.

  Scrap dust hammered the hull like a rain of needles.

  Carrion Port.

  A sanctuary for those who no longer had any sanctuary at all.

  Before the ramp even grazed the deck, twelve barrels were already pointed at her.

  Krag stood front and center. Almost two meters of meat and scar tissue, his face split by an old burn that ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth, leaving him with a permanent, inhuman grin.

  Next to him, the bald woman chewed gum with a clenched jaw.

  Kess. Alert eyes, restless hands, razor voice.

  Behind them, the fat, sweaty brute —Torv— Watching her as if he were already estimating her corpse’s weight.

  Krag spat to the side.

  —Where the fuck is Vark? That bastard owed half the galaxy, and I’m the half that’s still looking.

  Nébula didn’t answer.

  The shipyard corridors seemed to close behind them: makeshift tunnels welded together from badly patched ship fragments. Legless robots begged for spare parts like alms. Merchants screamed offers of stolen weapons. Rusty windows revealed workshops where mechanical slaves welded pieces by hand, without pause or mercy.

  Nébula stood still.

  Two seconds.

  Three.

  Too long.

  She felt the stares narrow.

  Kess raised an eyebrow.

  Torv showed yellow teeth.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Krag tightened his grip on the machete.

  She spoke.

  —Vark is dead. They all are. The ship was programmed to come here.

  Silence.

  A silence as heavy as a loaded cannon.

  Krag took a slow breath, scratched his chin with the flat of his blade without breaking eye contact.

  —And who the hell are you?

  —The one who survived.

  Kess let out a dry bark of laughter.

  —That doesn’t make you special, mu?eca. Even the parasites that eat cables survive around here.

  Torv stepped forward and circled behind her, too close.

  The giant’s left hand clamped around her throat. A serrated knife kissed her skin.

  A brutal shove.

  He slammed her against the dock wall.

  Metal boomed.

  Nébula didn’t resist it. She let herself fall, then exploded upward.

  Her body remembered before her mind did:

  Left elbow in a vicious arc —bone on bone— dry crack in Torv’s armed wrist. The knife spun away.

  Right knee straight into the soft gut.

  Torv folded like a crushed sack.

  She spun behind him, vaulted onto his shoulders in one clean, fluid motion, and locked her knee around his neck. Her rusted machete flashed into her right hand, the edge hovering mere millimeters from his eye—so close he could feel the cold bite of the metal

  All in under two seconds.

  Dead silence on the dock.

  Only Torv’s broken wheezing.

  Nébula spoke slowly, low, a whisper that cut through everyone:

  —If you want to keep it, big guy… stay very, very still.

  Krag let out a short, humorless laugh.

  —Don’t care where you crawled out of... —he said at last. —But if you came in Vark’s ship, you came with his debt. And his debt was big.

  Nébula didn’t blink.

  Kess stepped closer. She smelled of chemical tobacco and old adrenaline.

  —Let him go. Krag needs hands. We’ve got a job coming up, and you’re gonna prove whether you’re useful…

  Nébula dropped off Torv with a shove. The brute collapsed to his knees, spitting curses.

  Kess tilted her head.

  —Welcome to Carrion Port, ghost.

  Nébula sheathed the machete.

  She felt every eye boring into her back as she followed Krag deeper into the yard.

  The pirate boss slid open a door; a jet of cold blue light spilled out.

  Inside, his workshop looked like the throat of a starving monster: weapons hanging from the ceiling, ship parts stacked to the roof, cracked screens, and a half-dismantled android sprawled across the central table.

  Kess spoke while working a console:

  —The target is simple. A medical freighter. Old, slow, barely escorted. Carrying rare supplies… and something else. Lab-grade biological material. The kind that pays real money.

  Krag added:

  —We need someone small enough to crawl through duct B-17 and pop the inner airlock from the inside. That was Vark’s job. Now it’s yours.

  He pointed to a filthy bunk in the corner.

  —You sleep there. We move tomorrow. Try to run… Torv finds you. Betray us… I cut you in half myself.

  Kess smiled.

  Torv growled with eager anticipation.

  Nébula said nothing.

  She just dipped her chin—a silent contract sealed in a hell made of scrap.

  She used the bunk but didn’t sleep.

  The shipyard noises—limping engines, saws, screams, distant gunfire—were a constant reminder: she was deep in the wrong beast’s belly.

  She kept the hidden shard of metal between her fingers.

  Her secret weapon.

  Her only certainty.

  She knew the tiniest mistake would be her death.

  But she also knew something else.

  Krag was nervous.

  Kess didn’t trust her.

  Torv wanted to break her.

  And that medical freighter…

  That freighter carried something they weren’t talking about.

  Something that was calling to her without words.

  Biological material.

  A chill crawled up her spine.

  Outside, the shipyard roared like a giant beast picking its teeth with scrap.

  Nébula closed her eyes.

  Tomorrow, the heist.

  Tomorrow, blood.