The bar didn't advertise its name.

  It didn't need to.

  Anyone who had business on the outer lanes knew the place that orbited the cracked moon of Karthos-3— a gravity-tilted drum of welded hull plates and recycled atmosphere where smugglers, contract killers, void salvagers, and the occasionally disgraced corporate asset drank in neutral territory. Owned by no one but the people that ran it and its customers. This place made Whisper's Edge look like amateurs.

  The light above the hatch flickered once, then died.

  Inside, the air shimmered with smoke and ion residue. Low gravity gave every movement a slight delay — hair drifting, coats hanging wrong, spilled liquor forming slow-moving globes before patrons scooped them out if the air with their steins and laughed.

  Music pulsed from somewhere unseen. Bass-heavy. Mechanical. Impatient.

  Helena Voss did not alter her stride.

  Conversations thinned as she moved through the room.

  Not because they recognized her. Because predators recognize predators.

  She wore no House insignia. Only a charcoal coat. High collar. Structured lines. No visible weapon.

  Which meant she was the weapon.

  A card game paused mid-deal. Several patrons loosened their holsters. A few of the smart ones slipped out different exits.

  At the back of the room, beneath a broken holo-advertisement cycling through outdated mining contracts, sat Pike.

  He hadn’t changed either.

  Broad-shouldered. Dark coat open at the collar. A faint line of old scar tissue on his throat. One eye augmented — not flashy, just precise. The kind of man who looked relaxed because he had already calculated every exit.

  He didn't stand at her approach. That alone shouted to everyone there that Pike was just as dangerous as Voss.

  “Didn’t think you’d come this far out for a drink,” Pike said.

  His voice was calm. Slightly amused.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Voss stopped across from him.

  “I’m not here for leisure.”

  “I’d be disappointed if you were.”

  She did not sit.

  Pike watched her for a moment and smiled faintly.

  A server drone drifted past. Pike plucked a glass from its tray and slid it across the table toward her.

  She didn't touch it. He shrugged and took it back, sipping.

  “So,” Pike said. “What requires the attention from the mighty Auditor?”

  Voss extended a thin projection between them.

  Not the full telemetry.

  Only a fragment.

  A waveform. A flatline where something living had once existed.

  Pike’s augmented eye focused, iris tightening microscopically.

  “That’s not collapse,” he said quietly.

  “No.”

  He leaned back slightly.

  “That’s subtraction.”

  The word pleased her.

  “Yes.”

  He stared at the projection longer this time.

  “Vector?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Spread?”

  “Slow. For now.”

  Pike exhaled slowly.

  “And you think it’s intentional.”

  “I believe it's learning.”

  That got his attention.

  He leaned forward now.

  “You’re sure you want to poke something like that?”

  “I am certain I want it understood.”

  “And if understanding fails?”

  “Correction.”

  Pike chuckled under his breath.

  “There she is.”

  Silence settled between them. Heavy. Measured.

  Then Pike tapped the edge of the projection.

  “You’ll want Rift.”

  Voss’s gaze shifted slightly.

  “Rift is unstable.”

  “He’s perceptive.”

  “He is insubordinate.”

  “He’s good. And if this thing adapts,” Pike continued, “you don’t want a room full of obedient officers. You want someone who notices when reality bends.”

  Voss studied him. “Your recommendation is self-serving.”

  “Of course it is.” He finished his drink and set the glass down with care.

  “You recruit me, you get Rift. I don’t operate without him anymore.”

  “Why?”

  Pike’s expression shifted—not softer, but honest.

  “Because he sees mana signatures better than I do.”

  That was not small praise.

  The music swelled briefly as someone near the bar laughed too loudly. A glass shattered. No one reacted.

  Voss deactivated the projection.

  “What does he require?” she asked.

  Pike smiled slightly.

  “Credits and clear rules of engagement.”

  “You’ll have them.”

  “And defined objectives.”

  “You will have that as well.”

  “And autonomy in execution.”

  Her pause was fractional.

  “Within mission parameters.”

  Pike considered her.

  Then nodded once.

  “Then we’re in.”

  He raised two fingers subtly toward a back booth.

  From shadow, another figure stood.

  Of course. Pike left his commlink open for Rift to hear.

  He was thinner than expected. Pale. Sharp-eyed. Coat too long for his frame. Fingers restless — tapping once against his own wrist as though testing invisible seams in the air.

  Rift didn't approach immediately.

  Studying Voss, he tilted his head and squinted slightly.

  He closed the distance and smiled in a way that was not entirely reassuring.

  “Now, what have you been playing with? Absence? Oh my. It's absolutely fascinating.”

  “You'll observe it firsthand.”

  “Oh, we're definitely in now.”

  “You misunderstand,” Voss said calmly. “You were always in. I am merely formalizing it.”

  Rift threw his head back and laughed louder than necessary.

  “So when do we leave?”

  The music stuttered for half a second — bass clipping on damaged speakers.

  Voss didn't blink.

  “Now.”