The rescue ship Skiff, captained by Manuel, and Ragnar's vessel plunge headlong into the jaws of the sun. Solar light pulses in waves, and they descend toward the searing maw of the star.
A sharp, metallic alarm pierces the air—like the scream of the ship itself. The Inquisitor vessel's heat shielding begins to choke under the solar assault. Interference floods the system, and a voice crackles over the comms, trembling, nearly desperate:
"Captain Ragnar, if we don't abort—this ship's going to fry! We're at the edge!"
Ragnar, veins throbbing with fury, slams his fist against the armrest. That same force of will triggers the tactile interface, which flares red in protest. His face contorts—fury and helplessness etched into every line.
"Goddamn it!" he snarls, fists clenching. "We lost them… Abort pursuit! Set course for base!"
Again. Another near-capture, lost in a heartbeat. Who are these rescuers? Fanatics? Ready to burn alive rather than hand over the cargo?
Aboard the Skiff, it is calm.
The ship's upgraded hull absorbs the sun's wrath like a divine shield, muting the radiation into a low, angry hum. Pietro's eyes gleam, locked on the navigation feed as the enemy recedes—fading specks in the inferno behind them.
"We're clear!" he shouts, arms raised in triumph like a champion in a bloodstained arena. "Captain, they're retreating! We did it!"
Manuel doesn't answer right away. His gaze is fixed on the blazing abyss ahead. He knows this escape was never guaranteed. His entire life—one escape after another, always on the edge—has led to this: a moment that tastes like borrowed time.
This time, they lived. But the sun never forgives. It waits for error. The tiniest misstep.
"Good," he murmurs, his voice dark and smooth as heat shimmering on black water. "Adjust course. Head home—before we turn into a vapor trail."
His words carry no celebration. Just quiet, deliberate recognition of the monster they just outran. They aren't safe.
They're just... not dead yet.
**
The Inquisitors return to Mercury, carrying failure in their wake.
Ragnar's ship, scorched and scarred by heat, touches down like a wounded beast on the corporate landing pad. Its hull still sizzles, the surface blistered with rage. But it's still flying. Still alive.
Ragnar marches toward the entrance of Mercuria's headquarters, his silent aide at his side. His stride is sharp, efficient. Every step is tension masked as discipline.
Endless corridors. Polished marble. That cold, immaculate gloss. Power likes to wrap itself in shine—but behind it? Decay.
The air whispers with the drone of unseen systems. Security officers lurk in the periphery, barely moving. The pair stops at the reception hall.
Ivor's secretary greets them with all the warmth of carved wax. Not a word. Just a nod. The doors part silently, revealing a space that blurs the line between architecture and theater.
Waves crash across the walls—holographic oceans, alive with motion, roaring like beasts in a cage. They rise above the guests like a threat of drowning.
Ragnar doesn't flinch.
An ocean? Cheap trick. I've seen the sun up close. It doesn't roar. It devours.
Behind a massive desk sits Ivor, framed against the false sea like a monarch in control of a storm. The statue of Zeus looms behind him—black stone, lightning bolt in hand. A symbol of divine, merciless power.
Ivor rises, his smile spreading with the ease of practiced deceit.
"Well, look who it is!" he declares with mock joy. "Captain Ragnar, in the flesh. Always a pleasure, old friend. Sit down."
"Likewise," Ragnar replies coolly, though frustration grips his voice. He lowers himself into the chair. His aide remains standing, straight as a blade.
Ivor wastes no time. His eyes gleam—burning with the hunger of unfinished plans.
"Tell me you have good news. Was the mission successful?"
Ragnar doesn't answer at once. His fingers are clasped, knuckles white from the effort of restraint. His stare is unblinking, sharp as a blade.
"We reached the Fire Song station. No resistance. Hardly any guards. We took it."
He pauses.
"But the crew—led by their captain—sealed themselves in. We gave them a choice: surrender the ergon, live, work for the corporation."
Ivor narrows his eyes. Every word is weighed. Calculated.
"And?"
Ragnar exhales slowly, voice flat and cold as metal.
"They triggered a thermal grenade. All of them. Gone. Vaporized."
Silence. Ivor doesn't move—can't quite believe what he's hearing.
"You're certain?"
"After that kind of blast? There's nothing left to question. We didn't bother opening the door. The whole station's just dust and vacuum now."
Ivor closes his eyes briefly. His hand traces slow circles on the table—measuring time, measuring consequences.
"And the ergon?"
"Gone. Storage bay's empty. Stripped clean. They must've ejected the container into deep space. It's out there—somewhere in the void."
Ivor is quiet. His stare turns razor-sharp.
"Then..." His voice is calm. Too calm. "...you're going to find it. Is that understood, Captain?"
Ragnar doesn't answer. His silence speaks louder than any words. This isn't just a failure. It's a threat—a shadow cast over everyone who was on board.
Ivor slowly lowers himself into the chair, fingers laced before him. His eyes drift into the void, unfocused.
"This was a simple job," he says. "We bought their debts. You were supposed to collect the resource, break their will, and bring them under corporate control. Instead—mass suicide. A ghost station. Zero ergon."
His voice sharpens, like glass under pressure.
"The site's cursed now. No investor will touch it. And those debts? Just paper now. Do you even realize the scale of your idiocy?"
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if picturing the fire.
"I knew it could end badly. But I didn't think those lunatics would blow themselves up like cultists. Burning space... and not a single survivor."
Ragnar's fists clench. His body is a coiled wire, face still as stone.
"Cool it, Ivor," he growls. "You're not the only one I make deals with."
Ivor studies him—eyes like surgical blades. Then, almost lazily, he tilts his head and lets a smirk curl the corners of his mouth.
"Fair enough," he says, the words soaked in venom. "So, you came back empty-handed?"
"Not exactly," Ragnar exhales. "We stayed close. Kept our signal masked. Not long after, a rescue ship arrived. They didn't rescue anyone—dead men don't scream. But... they found the ergon. We saw them pull the container aboard. I'm sure they had coordinates."
He leans forward, voice tense.
"We tried to intercept. Cornered them. But those bastards ran—straight into the sun. It was suicide. We gave chase, but our hull started melting. Had to pull back."
Ivor lets out a long, quiet breath, his shoulders lowering. For a moment, he seems... almost contemplative.
"Everyone's an idiot," he says, softly. "Except you, of course. You're the hero. What a story, Ragnar. Sounds almost... mythic."
Then his voice shifts—cool and whispering, like a scalpel across silk:
"But there's one problem. You lost the ergon. And then tried to steal it from someone who found it first."
He pauses.
"That's a violation of corporate protocol. Someone has to answer for it."
Ragnar barely has time to process the words before Ivor draws a personal pulse-pistol from his thigh. His fingers tighten—and a flash of white erupts from the weapon.
The Inquisitor standing beside Ragnar doesn't even scream. One moment, he's there.
The next—just a mound of gray ash, slowly settling on the immaculate floor.
The smell of ozone and decay hangs in the air like a warning—death was here. Cold. Clean. Indifferent.
Ragnar doesn't move. His face flushes with rage, jaw tight. He lurches forward, then stops himself—forces the storm back down. A soldier's discipline. But his eyes burn.
He just erased my man. Like dust on a windowpane. Damn you, Ivor. You crossed a line. But if I flinch now—I'm next.
Ivor meets his stare, unfazed. His expression flat, almost bored. His voice drops to a near-whisper—but it lands like frost.
"Did I make myself clear?"
Each word brings a chill to the room.
"You understand, Ragnar? The Corporation doesn't forgive losses. Or disobedience."
Ragnar grinds out a single word:
"Yes… boss."
And only then does he realize: it's the first time he's called him that—boss. A word that should never have passed his lips. It spills out like bile after poison.
Damn it. Why did I say that? Boss? I'm no dog. I'm a captain. I command androids. He commands fear. That's not the same thing. But right now... I'm under him.
Ivor nods, seemingly oblivious to the hesitation. He holsters the weapon.
"You're dismissed."
He says it like one might excuse a janitor. Flat. Functional. No threat needed—it's worse that way.
"Next time," he adds, "bring results."
Ragnar rises. Turns. His boots strike the marble floor like war drums. Steady. Loud. Inevitable.
He showed me what he can do. No warning. No trial. Just a flash—and you're nothing. I haven't forgotten, Ivor. I won't forget. He's not just a client anymore. He's a beast—with a trigger in his hand.
"Wait."
Ragnar stops. Turns his head. His jaw is set, his muscles tense like drawn wire. But his eyes—no fear. Only fury. Contained. Measured.
"Tell the secretary to clean that up," Ivor says, flicking his fingers toward the ash. "This floor's too expensive to be stained by the dead."
The silence that follows is absolute. Even gravity seems to hold its breath.
Ragnar lingers one heartbeat longer. His gaze pierces. For a moment, he teeters on the edge. One draw. One shot. One choice.
But only the corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. A scar.
Remember this, Ivor. I never forget.
Without a word, he turns and walks out.
The doors close behind him—slowly, almost ceremoniously.
Like the curtain falling after a tragedy.
And in the room, nothing remains but silence.
Deep. Suffocating.
As if Death itself stayed seated in Ivor's chair.