Jason ran the question over in his head until it blurred: how do you start a talk with someone you’d insulted? Wait for them, or force it? Admit, or defend? He followed the guard with half his mind counting steps like a mantra to stay steady.

  He expected the rec area. The guard turned and climbed a different flight of stairs. Officers glanced his way as they passed—less like respect than like appraisal. Assets, not people. Jason kept his jaw clenched and kept walking.

  The guard checked a nameplate and pushed the door open.

  The office smelled of metal polish and ozone. Sculptures of exotic alloys caught the light—expensive things Jason didn’t recognize. Behind a wide desk, Veyrn fumbled with a small cylinder marked O?, sliding it into a case beside a breathing mask.

  “Ah—there you are.” Veyrn’s smile was the sort that had never had to try. “Our moneymaker. You pulled a crowd today. Made us a tidy sum.”

  Jason said nothing. He watched Veyrn’s easy, practiced movements, the man who carried power like a second skin. A cold line crept down Jason’s spine.

  Veyrn leaned back, idle curiosity in his tone. “You looked familiar. I checked your file. Ironwood, isn’t it?”

  The words landed flat, like a stone. Jason’s mouth went dry. His fist closed without meaning to.

  Veyrn shrugged as if naming a mining settlement. “Glad that place still coughed up something profitable before it ran dry. Not many of those left under my name.” He paused, then gave the smile that passed for generosity in his world. “You’ve been entertaining. That hidden dagger of yours? The crowd loved it. So—privileges. Tell us what you need, and we’ll provide it before your next fight. After inspection, of course.”

  Something snapped in Jason’s head. The reality of Veyrn’s world settled over him like a cold weight; the small, noisy thoughts peeled away until one idea remained clear and hard: get out. As that resolve formed, another thought rose behind it, darker and simpler: kill Veyrn.

  He forced the thought down, returning to Veyrn’s words—praise on the surface, a leash beneath. The offer still stunned him: tools, protection, a chance to build things that might buy time in the arena. He glanced at the scissors on the desk, felt the old reflex to reach, but his body protested—bruised, exhausted, his face and shoulder swollen—and the motion died... but not the thought.

  “Well then,” Veyrn said, waving him away. “Prepare. The next fight won’t wait.”

  The guard shepherded him back down the corridor. Jason’s mind, sharper beneath the pain, already sketched possibilities—gear to cobble together, modifications that might buy seconds in the ring.

  But the other question returned. Vincent. He had to set things right. He had no other allies here the way Vincent did—not with those nets of contacts, not with that hard, useful mind.

  In the rec area the prisoners watched him—bandaged shoulder, swollen cheek, the gaunt silhouette of someone who’d touched a different fate and come back. Jason felt their looks the way a man might feel cold wind.

  He stood before his cell door, unsure whether to enter. A rubber ball thudded in the dim corridor—Vincent’s rhythm. Jason exhaled, then pushed the door open.

  Vincent lay on his berth, tossing the ball absentmindedly. When he saw Jason framed in the doorway, he froze. The last time they’d parted, words had been exchanged. Neither had wanted to be the first to bow.

  They looked at each other the length of a breath and both understood: the talk would wait until the bleeding stopped.

  Jason let his body hit the bed. Sleep came in fitful pulls. Wounds throbbed like a second heartbeat. He drifted and woke on scraps of rest, each hour taking some of the swelling with it; his shoulder stiffened but eased.

  When he finally rose, Vincent was already packing small trade items and tokens, moving with the quiet, efficient motion of someone who’d learned to survive by preparation. Neither spoke. A guard’s shadow slid along the corridor.

  “Let’s go.” The guard’s voice was a common thing—command without feeling. They walked to the rec area in silence, the air between them thin.

  Jason was led back to the cage where Max hunched over another gearbox. Max looked up and all the distance between men fell away into concern. “You alright?” he asked.

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  “Worse yesterday,” Jason admitted. “It’s better now.” He ducked into the work stall and looked for something to fix—hands that worked felt like an anchor.

  “Take it easy today,” Max said. He watched Jason’s eyes drift to the corridor, to places where crews worked, to the heavy doors labeled GRAV-GENS. “It seems your body isn’t the only thing wounded,” he added softly. “I’ve seen that look.”

  Jason blinked, surprised. He’d noticed Max’s silence before—how the man carried his losses like ballast. Memory twinged: Max’s stories, the people he couldn’t save.

  “I was a hypocrite,” Jason said before he could stop it. He turned a small gear in his fingers. “I thought I had to help everyone. This place taught me otherwise. I judged someone who knew how it worked, instead of learning.”

  Max only nodded. He’d learned to be quiet about the things no one could fix. “Not everyone can be saved,” he said. “But we fix what we can.”

  They moved to a side room labeled O2-3 to clean saturated filters. The hum of machines and the sharp tang of oil kept Jason tethered. Max worked with methodical calm. For a while Jason’s head emptied; all that mattered was the task under his hands.

  “Thanks,” Jason said quietly when they closed the panel. A real smile slid across his face, small and honest.

  Max’s answer was a soft admission. “Sometimes I want everything to disappear. Still, I fix things. I don’t destroy.”

  The seed lodged in Jason’s chest: What if I destroyed it? he wondered—angry, hungry, unrefined. Max scoffed gently, then caught the sight of Jason’s battered features and fell silent.

  “You don’t plan to stay here forever,” Max said instead. “If you want out, show them what you can do. Trust is earned one small thing at a time.”

  Jason watched Max leave, tools in hand. The man’s quiet steadiness spurred something in him. He didn’t want to become a man who only fixed things to forget. He wanted to break the loop.

  It was time to leave. Jason looked back as he went in the corridor to the locked door, he opened his mouth, trying to give some comforting words as he left, but nothing came out. Not words, but actions would show, so he turned around, knocked on the door and left Max tinkering.

  He was ready to confront Vincent, he knew what he wanted to say, what he needed to say.

  As he entered the rec area he noticed Vincent getting a lavish meal at the kitchen, using a token from his work. He didn’t have many since he usually just gets items to trade, so he only used the tokens when he really needed to.

  As Vincent turned around he saw Jason at the entrance from the door leading to the maintenance area. His focus on him, making him a little startled.

  Jason nodded at him, leading him to the side. We need to talk. He signalled.

  Vincent felt hesitant, he stood by his words, but he saw Jason’s state, bringing his mentality down would just be torture right now.

  Vincent ignored his call and just sat down at a table, ready to gobble at his food.

  Jason sat across from Vincent, eyes fixed on him. He didn’t waste time.

  “You were right,” Jason said, voice low but firm. “I was a hypocrite. I judged you for saving who you could… but I’ve done the same. I killed, I saved, I lost. I can’t pretend anymore.”

  Vincent froze mid-bite, lowering his food. His brows furrowed, suspicion mixed with surprise.

  “So what then? You come here to spill regrets? That won’t change anything.”

  Jason leaned closer, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking. Veyrn gave me privileges — tools for the arena. If I gain trust, I can slip things out. In maintenance I can sabotage the engines. They control gravity. If I take them down at the right moment, the port falls into chaos.”

  Vincent gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Chaos? That’s suicide, kid. Even if you manage it, the guards will slaughter anyone trying to run. And the crowd—”

  “You have the contacts,” Jason cut in. “You know the safe places. You can gather the prisoners, the ones who’ll move. The fighters can shield them. Tahuuk will help. You’ve already built the net, Vincent. All I need is the break in the loop.”

  Vincent’s jaw tightened. He wanted to dismiss it, to call it madness… but the boy’s eyes burned with something he couldn’t look away from. Against his will, he started thinking.

  “There is… an emergency hangar,” Vincent muttered. “Dropships for the elites, and guards if things go wrong. I’ve heard whispers. But I don’t know how many it can hold.”

  “That’s enough to start,” Jason replied without hesitation.

  Vincent rubbed his temple, reluctant but pulled into the gravity of Jason’s will. “Even if we get that far… what about Veyrn? You think he’ll just let this slide? He’ll hunt us to the edge of the sector.”

  Jason finally leaned back, face shadowed, lips curling into something grim. “That won’t be a problem.”

  Vincent frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Vincent’s jaw tightened. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tell Jason he was being foolish. He only watched, the long weight of survival and calculation in his eyes. For a moment he saw the boy not as a kid but as a blade—raw and dangerous and set on its edge.

  Jason met that look and felt something in him sharpen. He wasn’t thinking of escape routes or who would carry him out; he wasn’t counting himself among the living afterward. His voice went quiet, flat as a stone dropped into dark water.

  “I’ll kill him.”