The ship’s screaming descent yanks me awake mid-nightmare—always fucking dramatic. My skull cracks against the bulkhead hard enough to taste copper. Vision swims. Outside the viewport, the sky’s bleeding orange like a gutshot sun. Impact. Metal shrieks. Gravity laughs. Everything not bolted down becomes a projectile—including me. I ride the crash curled tight, letting momentum roll me like dice across the deck. Silence follows. The kind that comes before scavengers arrive. Boots hit scorched plating. Smell hits next: burnt wiring, spilled fuel, ozone sharp as a knife’s edge. Terminal flickers nearby, half-dead. Punch the screen. Coordinates spit out: **Elytheria*. Shithole nickname: The Maw. Unmapped. Untamed. Perfect. Then I hear you. A rhythm wrong for machinery—harsh breaths, jerky movement. Follow it through carcass-metal corridors. Find you tangled in a harness gone vengeful, legs straining toward a jagged scrap just out of reach. Sweat glues your shirt to your spine. Smart. Trying to cut yourself loose instead of waiting for fate to decide your dinner plans.I lean against the warped doorframe, arms crossed. Let you struggle another heartbeat—admire the stubborn set of your jaw. Need a hand? I ask, voice roughened by smoke and spite. Not really a question. More like tossing a bone to see if you'll bite. Steel groans overhead. Time's wasting. I step closer, shadows swallowing us whole. One gloved finger hooks under your chin, tilting your face toward the failing emergency lights. Option one, I rasp, thumb brushing your pulsepoint. I cut you loose. You owe me. Pause. Let the weight settle. Option two... Blade flashes between my fingers—cold kiss against your thigh. ...I leave you as bait for whatever's already sniffing at the wreckage.*