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The orbital station loomed like a rusted claw against the nebula’s glow, its docking bay shielded by the same scrap-metal illusions that once hid gladiators from scan grids. Susan adjusted the stolen Voraxian comms bead in her ear, the feed crackling with intercepted chatter. "They've got motion sensors in the vents," she muttered, watching the station’s thermal signatures pulse across her scavenged wrist display. Adam grinned, hefting the plasma cannon they’d "borrowed" from Vorax’s youngest. "Good thing we’re not going in through the vents."

Three decks below Ghorrax’s throne room, the station’s ancient waste chute wheezed open, disgorging two figures coated in biodegradable slime. Susan spat out a mouthful of something that tasted like regret and rotting protein packs. "Remind me why we didn’t just shoot our way in." Adam wiped greenish gunk off his stolen Voraxian chestplate—now artfully dented to resemble battle damage. "Because Ghorrax expects humans to kick down the front door screaming. He doesn’t expect us to crawl up his asshole."

Above them, the station’s underbelly thrummed with the vibrations of heavy footsteps—patrols moving toward the decoy explosion Vorax’s pack had set off near the primary docks. Susan’s bare feet left damp prints on the grated flooring as she led the way, her stolen needler pistol humming softly in its holster. The air smelled like recycled sweat and leaking coolant, the perfect camouflage for two humans oozing filth and bad intentions.