The wrench slammed against steel with a thunderous crack, jolting Karauro awake. Taron’s grin hovered above him like a bad omen.

  “Rise and shine, slum rat. You’re alive—lucky you. Now move it; this job won’t do itself.”

  Maybe I should’ve tried my luck in the ruins.

  Karauro swung his legs off the cot, every joint aching from cheap sleep and worse dreams.

  “What about breakfast?” he mumbled.

  Taron barked a hoarse laugh. “Merc pay doesn’t include breakfast in bed. Get up before I toss this cot in the recycler.” He flung a filthy vest at him. “Armor pit. You’re on scrub duty. Watch you don’t choke on grease—we just unclogged the drains.”

  Nice. Treated worse than a stray dog.

  ---

  The armor pit felt like a furnace. Hammers rang, torches hissed, the air wavered like it was molten.

  Karauro crouched by a rack, scrubbing grime from a bullet-pocked shoulder plate. His reflection rippled in the steel—gaunt, smeared with oil. His palms throbbed around the stiff brush.

  Boots clicked above him.

  “You missed a bit.”

  Just leave me be, you walking death machine…

  He didn’t need to look up. “Morning, Nera.”

  She sat on the railing, violet hair tied back, eyes sharper than any instrument here. “Morning, rat. This isn’t volunteer work. A half-clean plate cracks in the next fight.”

  “I know,” he replied, scrubbing harder. “I’m doing my best.”

  “Do better.”

  Taron called across the pit, “See? He’s learning—like a stray pup that only nipped once!”

  Nera’s tone dipped dark. “Let’s hope he picks it up quicker than you did.”

  Aaron strode past with a diagnostic slate, sunglasses perched in his tousled hair. “Settle down. Some of us need our hearing intact for field ops.”

  Finally, someone with a voice of reason.

  Karauro scrubbed until his fingers went numb.

  “That’s enough,” Nera said.

  He paused, bracing for more work. “There’s still half a rack—”

  “I said up.”

  He stood, brush dangling.

  “You want out of scrub duty?” A thin smile cut across her face. “You’re joining us on a core run.”

  ---

  The gear room reeked of oil and stale sweat. Lockers lined the walls, labels burned into metal.

  Nera keyed a code. Hinges screeched. Inside, an older Nexon-suit hung on a rail—plates scratched but intact. Beneath it, a sealed helmet.

  She shoved the suit at him. “Off with your shirt. Suit up.”

  He hesitated. “Right now?”

  “No, next winter.” She snapped her fingers. “Now.”

  He wriggled into the suit. Stiff at first—then the inner lining warmed and tightened, hugging him like armor-as-flesh.

  This looks like someone polished it with spit and tape. How am I supposed to survive in this cardboard suit?

  His forearm seal wouldn’t catch. He fumbled again—

  Nera slapped his hand aside and snapped it closed herself.

  “Listen.” She tapped the neck ring. “This stays tight. Loose seal means spores crawl in.”

  She tapped the chest pack. “Filters. HUD. If you panic, focus on the readout, not the noise.”

  Then she jabbed his back plate, hard. “And you don’t touch thrusters. You aren’t flying. You’re breathing.”

  She held the helmet out. “Lock it down.”

  He slid it on. The hiss of recycled air filled his ears. The HUD flickered to life.

  > NAME: RAT

  STATUS: PROBATIONARY

  Just throw me into a cell while you’re at it.

  He winced. “Probationary?”

  “Better than ‘Dead Weight.’” Nera turned away. “Unit Seven’s ready.”

  ---

  The hangar thrummed—haulers idling, mercs checking weapons under harsh white lamps.

  Aaron scanned the team like a man counting failures before they happened. Roy stood nearby with an easy grin that didn’t match the ruins outside. Riven and the others moved in practiced loops—quiet, efficient, already half gone.

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  Nera brought Karauro forward like a piece of gear.

  Roy's grin grew. “Ah, the legendary Spire kid! The rat who fell from Athereon and escaped a horde of Maw-Crows—what a duo with our Viper!”

  Nera shot him a glare. “Keep that up and I’ll volunteer you for extra core hauls.”

  Aaron clicked his metal fingers once. “Save it. Cores don’t haul themselves.”

  Taron swaggered in and tossed Karauro a rifle, handle-first. “Here. Safety on until we’re in the zone. Nera vouches for you.”

  Oh, it’s time to bite back.

  Karauro eyed the weapon, then Taron’s smirk through his visor. “Heartwarming,” he muttered.

  Roy chuckled."Yup, kid's got teeth. Approved."

  Riven’s voice cut in dry. “Admire him later. For now, he stays in formation—any predators can have him.”

  “If he bogs us down, I’ll toss him out as bait,” Nera added.

  Karauro filed into the hauler behind them, feeling the suit’s weight—and every gaze—press harder than steel.

  Adapt, he reminded himself, fingers tightening on the stock. Or the ruins claim you.

  ---

  The ramp thumped shut. The hauler rumbled as Spine’s gates yawned open.

  A monitor flipped through Unit Seven profiles. Karauro’s mugshot flashed—lips pressed in annoyance, a thin collar around his neck.

  The collar tightened as they passed the inner checkpoint. He swallowed against it.

  Roy noticed immediately. “Hold still.”

  He stepped in close and popped the latch. The pressure eased.

  Karauro exhaled. “Thanks. Thought I’d heave.”

  “No problem,” Roy murmured. “Ask me next time. Nera’d tighten it.”

  From the front, Nera didn’t turn. “Keep moving.”

  The hauler crossed the barrier. The HUD shifted from Spine-clean to ruin-dirty. Sensors flickered as spore density climbed.

  They parked on an elevated deck and stepped out.

  The air tasted like pennies and wet concrete. Mist crawled along the ground in slow sheets, clinging to boots and broken rebar. Somewhere far off, something scraped metal—patient, like it had time.

  Karauro’s visor fogged at the edges. He wiped it once, then kept his hand off the seal like his life depended on discipline.

  It did.

  “Multiple contacts ahead,” Maverick reported. “Small returns—mites or cantors.”

  Aaron’s voice stayed calm. “Split to avoid swarms. Riven, Ilene—flanks. Nera, with me. Rat—Taron and Roy.”

  Karauro fell in beside Roy, boots crunching glass. The ruined city leaned over them like tombstones.

  ---

  They reached a broken street where five Grievers tore at each other—teeth, talons, ichor spraying the pavement.

  “What are they doing?” Karauro whispered.

  “Fighting for cores,” Roy said. “Winner mutates. Losers become scraps.”

  Taron checked charges, hands quick. “Ready.”

  Aaron’s comm clicked once. “Engage.”

  Canisters popped—red electrical pulses crawling outward, snapping through the fog like veins of lightning. The Grievers spasmed, bodies locking mid-lunge.

  Karauro’s stomach lurched. He forced his rifle up.

  “Chest. Head. Left rib,” Aaron called, tagging weak points on their shared HUD.

  Nera’s shots landed exactly where he marked—clean holes, no waste.

  Roy surged forward. Karauro followed because stopping meant dying.

  He fired. Recoil bruised his shoulder through the suit. Casings clattered around his boots like angry rain. The smell—burnt metal and something sweet-rotten—flooded his helmet filters.

  The last creature swelled and burst.

  Silence snapped in too clean.

  “That was too easy,” Maverick muttered. “I expected a mutation.”

  Karauro lowered his rifle—then his glove tugged, hard.

  A red blink pulsed at the edge of his HUD.

  Not on anyone else’s display.

  He raised his hand, staring. The red point beat faster, like a heart underground.

  “That’s… new,” he breathed.

  Roy glanced over. “Rat?”

  Nera’s head tilted, noticing the pause. “You damage your HUD?”

  Karauro didn’t answer. The blink accelerated.

  The earth answered for it.

  A tremor shuddered through the street.

  Riven’s voice cracked over comms. “Radar spike—something big. Maybe a Ripper, maybe worse. Evac, now!”

  They bolted.

  Karauro ran with them, lungs burning, visor fogging, feet slipping on wet grit.

  His boot vanished into a hidden pit.

  “What the hell—!” He lurched, arms windmilling.

  Roy and Nera both grabbed his harness and hauled him free as the ground caved in and swallowed the hole behind him.

  They sprinted into an alley as the tremor died the moment they cleared it—like something had tested the ground and decided where to strike.

  A building nearby folded inward, brick and glass spiraling into a cloud.

  Then the haze moved.

  A dozen crimson eyes flickered.

  A shriek ripped through the air—wrong, hungry—rattling every nerve in Karauro’s body.

  Ah, shit. Bigger than the last one.

  Smoke rolled off it in thick waves. Under charred hide, three cores pulsed—lantern-bright.

  “Shoot the eyes!” Aaron shouted. “Blind it!”

  Roy fired—one eye burst, then another. Orange gel spilled down its face. The Ripper staggered, swinging claws big enough to split a car.

  Karauro copied Roy’s stance. His first shots went wide.

  He forced his breathing down. Squeezed. Corrected.

  His rounds punched into ruined eyes. The thing bellowed, smoke belching harder.

  Maverick shredded its legs. Taron lobbed EDP grenades that burst into jagged red arcs along its flank.

  Riven’s sniper fire chewed its jawline. Teeth splintered and skittered across the street.

  “I’ll pop those teeth out so it can chew like an old granny,” Riven buzzed.

  Ilene’s voice came tight. “Tagging core location for Nera.”

  Nera moved.

  Thrusters flared once—controlled, brutal. She shot forward, blade white-hot, and carved through belly plates. One core flashed into full view, thick vessels pulsing.

  Roy leveled his rifle—

  Click.

  “Damn it—”

  Nera’s gaze snapped to Karauro. “Hey, Rat! Shoot the core—the bright thing!”

  “I’m not an idiot!” Karauro snapped, raising his rifle—

  Then he saw movement under the plates.

  Not muscle.

  Not organs.

  Something writhing like a centipede beneath armor.

  Faces pressed from the inside of the Ripper’s skin—warped, stretched, screaming without sound.

  One looked like Jorrin.

  A sharp sting hit Karauro’s throat. A sound drilled into his mind—high and wrong, like a scream played backwards. His finger went slack on the trigger.

  “RAT!” Nera shouted, but from her angle she couldn’t see his face.

  “Clear the way—incoming!” Maverick warned.

  Something slammed into Karauro from the side—arms and weight tangling with his. He hit the ground hard.

  His glove flared by reflex, deflecting a claw swipe that would’ve opened his chest.

  Roy grunted in pain as they skidded across broken concrete.

  Aaron was there a second later, hauling them up with steel hands.

  The Ripper lunged for Nera. She dodged, carving joints with violent precision.

  Taron braced his heavier weapon and fired—missiles thudding into the Ripper’s side with concussive booms.

  Riven’s shot punched through the first exposed core.

  The Ripper stuttered.

  Nera climbed the jagged spikes along its back like steps, vaulted, and dragged her blade across its flank—exposing the other two cores fully.

  Ilene fed Riven the last rounds.

  Two cracks.

  Two cores ruptured.

  The Ripper’s eyes flickered—then went dark.

  Its bulk collapsed, shaking the street and throwing dust up like ash.

  ---

  Karauro steadied Roy, whose breathing had gone sharp and tight.

  “I’m sorry, Roy, I—”

  “Heh.” Roy forced a smile. “Next time, try not to use my ribs as a landing pad, yeah?”

  Nera’s shadow fell over them.

  “You froze,” she said to Karauro, voice flat with heat underneath. “And Roy paid for it.”

  “You think I wanted to?” Karauro snapped, throat still tight. “I’m not a soldier. I didn’t ask to play one.”

  Nera grabbed his collar and yanked him forward. “Spine isn’t a shelter. You pull weight or you get buried.”

  Karauro pried her wrist off. “Then let me die out here.”

  Aaron stepped between them, fingers closing around Nera’s fist before it turned into something worse. “Enough. You made your point.”

  Nera’s jaw flexed once. She ripped her hand free and brushed past Karauro, shoulder-checking him as she went.

  Aaron exhaled, then keyed comms. “Riven, Ilene—bring the hauler. Roy’s wounded. Mav and I take the main core.”

  Acknowledgments crackled back, one by one.

  ---

  The hauler ride home was quiet.

  Roy sat braced at the back, one hand on his side, eyes still scanning like the ruins hadn’t let go of him. Nera sat forward, elbow on knee, visor hiding whatever she refused to show. Karauro kept his helmet on, back straight, hands still.

  He sat like a small, quiet version of Riven.

  Now I see why he doesn’t move, Karauro thought. Easier to blend in. Just another piece of furniture.

  Taron tapped Karauro’s helmet lightly, once. “You gonna keep that on the whole time?”

  “Yeah,” Karauro said, clipped. “No problem.”

  Aaron watched him a moment. “Karauro—med-bay when we dock. Compulsory after every run. Understood?”

  A beat.

  “…Okay.”

  The Spine shield cast a brilliant light across the dark sky as it came into view.

  As the gates parted and the hauler rolled inside, Karauro felt it again—that strange sensation that every time he passed through the barrier, another sliver of himself stayed trapped out there, among the ruins.

  If you want to see whether Karauro can come back from freezing in front of a Ripper—and what Nera and Unit Seven do with that failure—jump straight into the next chapter.

  Right now, whose side are you more on: Nera pushing Karauro to be ruthless, or Karauro clinging to being human while Unit Seven bleeds around him?