Chapter 7 · Black Market Deal

"Don't move a muscle, or I'll paint this floor with your brains," a voice rasped from the shadows.

I froze. The muzzle of a jagged, scrap-welded rifle was pressed right against the bridge of my nose. Beside me, Elara didn't even flinch, though her hand was already drifting toward the hidden port in her wrist.

"We're not looking for trouble," Elara said, her voice like ice. "We're looking for Vex."

Three more figures stepped out of the smog. They weren't corp soldiers; they were scavengers—street rats with rusted chrome plating bolted directly into their skin. One of them had a jaw made of recycled industrial steel that clicked every time he breathed.

"Vex doesn't take walk-ins," the one with the rifle sneered. He leaned in, the smell of ozone and old grease hitting me. "Especially not two gutter-rats who look like they just crawled out of a sewage pipe."

"We have something he wants," Elara replied. She didn't look at me, but I felt the tension in her shoulder. She was playing the high-stakes game, and I was the chip on the table.

"Is that so?" The rifleman shifted his gaze to me.