Sooner rather than later

They waited until Vorax's laughter shook the bulkheads of *The Rusted Claw* before ghosting toward the docking ring's less reputable sectors. The stolen access codes from the Sylvaari got them through three security checkpoints before Susan jammed her vibro-blade into the fourth panel's circuitry. The door slid open with a dying whimper.

"Think he'll come looking?" Adam asked, palming a discarded plasma rifle from a drunk Benthar trader. Susan kicked open a maintenance hatch, revealing a nest of sparking conduits that smelled like burnt wiring and bad decisions. "Not for us," she said, wriggling into the crawlspace. "But that magistrate's finger bones? Those he'll miss."

The Stormcrow sat in Dock 47-C like a waiting predator, its matte-black hull drinking in the station's emergency lighting. Susan ran her fingers along its flank, feeling the ship's neural interface thrum beneath her touch like a second heartbeat. Eris's voice slithered through her comms without preamble: "You abandoned your pack."

"Not abandoned," Susan corrected, pressing her palm flat against the Stormcrow's hull where it still hummed with residual heat from their last jump. The metal vibrated under her touch like a living thing—because it was, now. "Just heading for different futures with different priorities."