The Scythian, Captain Manuel's ship, slices low across Mercury's surface, skimming the invisible threshold where day bleeds into night. The vessel stays hidden from orbital surveillance, cutting through a thin layer of ionized silence—drifting straight toward the twilight frontier where two worlds meet: one industrial, one domestic.
Manuel watches the screen.
We're the blade—balanced on the edge of shadow and flame.
In this band of permanent sunrise, Mercury reveals itself as the perfect place for the corporate heart of Mercuria. Towering ridges shield the settlements from the Sun's inferno, filtering its rage through a luminous dome. Below—symmetrical streets, sunlit courtyards, serene towers. A blueprint of utopia, printed in steel and glass.
The Scythian soars over the tranquil marvel. Its engines hum softly, but there's power in every pulse. A subtle vibration announces their landing—the hull brushing down on a metal pad beside the colossal Mercuria building.
"Smooth landing," Manuel mutters, unclipping his harness. He glances at Pietro and Maria. His voice is calm, but his eyes stay sharp—scanning them, the shadows beneath their seats, and the weight in his own chest.
Something's wrong. The planet feels like it's holding its breath. Or maybe… we are.
"We sell the ergon fast. Before someone else comes for it. It's a hot item. And in space, if you don't mine it—you steal it."
Maria frowns, skeptical.
"Ivor again?" Her voice tightens. "I don't trust him, Manuel. Never did."
"You got someone better?" Manuel raises an eyebrow. His tone is cool, but there's fatigue behind it. Frustration. "He plays by the rules. That's rare. Especially here."
"Plays by the rules?" she snorts. "He looks at you like a predator watching prey. You just can't tell whose turn it is yet."
"Careful not to fall for him, princess," Pietro throws in, smirking. His voice teases, but his eyes darken.
Stupid jokes. Lock it down before it bleeds out.
"Girls love danger. Even when they know how it ends."
"Already did," Maria snaps, narrowing her eyes. The irony in her tone can't mask the flicker of pain behind it. "Hope you're not jealous."
"Not even a little," Pietro lies, reclining casually. But his grip tightens on the armrest—too hard. "You're free as vacuum. Yours to run with him when it all burns."
"Bastard," she whispers. Her voice trembles—rage, or something else?
"Enough," Manuel cuts in. His voice sharpens. He rises. "We're here."
**
The engines go still.
They step out onto the landing platform, bathed in Mercury's filtered sunlight. Before them—Mercuria's headquarters. A monument of glass, shadow, and hidden intent.
Inside: cool air, distant footsteps, the hush of filtration systems breathing like a buried beast. The corridors are wide, backlit in green—the color of clearance. Everything feels engineered, inhuman. A sanctuary built for logic, not life.
They don't live here. They endure. Beautiful. Sterile. Even death wears perfume.
Ivor's assistant leads them into a reception chamber. The walls shimmer—floor-to-ceiling holograms. A pastoral meadow stretches before them. Sheep drift lazily over green hills, their shapes soft as clouds. Warm light, a whisper of breeze, the scent of grass.
Pietro blinks.
Fake. Even the light's a lie. What filth is he hiding under this cartoon Eden?
And in the middle of it—him. Ivor reclines in a deep leather chair. His face half-shadowed, his gaze already palpable. He twirls a silver control device in his fingers like a conductor tuning his orchestra.
"My friends," he purrs, rising with a gesture that feels less like welcome and more like warning. We're all in this game—but I wrote the rules. "It's been a while."
Manuel and his crew settle into the waiting chairs. Too soft—designed to lull, to loosen the spine and silence the gut.
Comfort always hides a blade.
"Long time no see," Ivor says, killing the hologram with a flick. The sunny day dies. The room dims into soft, surgical cold.
"So—what brings you here? What've you got?"
"Nice office," Manuel says, glancing around. His tone is light, but his mind is calculating. He's reading the room like a threat scanner. "This all must've cost a fortune."
"Captain," Ivor smiles, modesty dripping like oil. He shrugs with practiced humility. "I'm just a cog in the machine."
He taps his forehead theatrically.
"What a terrible host I am. Haven't even offered a drink," he laments, with exaggerated shame.
At a gesture, the table opens. Glasses rise, elegant and tall, followed by a bottle of glowing amber. The light within refracts like a storm trapped in honey.
"Rum for androids," Ivor says, half-laughing as he pours. "Tastes like a kiss from the void."
He lifts his glass.
"To friendship. May it remain strong… and above all, honest."
They clink glasses. But the gesture carries more weight than simple ceremony.
The drink flickers on the tongue, releasing an unreal warmth—like it bends time, makes space ripple, soft and uncertain.
Maria freezes. She stares at the glass as if it's something enchanted, then murmurs, half-dazed:
"Magnificent… This is the best rum I've ever tasted."
Or maybe he laced it with something...
No. It's not the flavor—it's the effect.
Too smooth. Too perfect.
Ivor smiles. But behind that smile lies a glacial detachment—the look of a predator not yet striking, merely waiting.
A moment stretches between them like a bead of frozen time.
"Now then—down to business. What have you got?"
Manuel clears his throat. His voice sharpens, shedding the ease of the laid-back captain—slipping back into the hard armor of command.
"We received a distress signal from the private station Song of Fire. When we arrived, it was already gone. Nothing left but silence… and ash. The crew self-terminated. Thermal charge. Looks like it was about the ergon."
Ivor exhales softly. Not alarmed—thoughtful. His face twitches, just for a breath, revealing interest before sinking behind his usual mask of weary concern.
"Curious…" he says slowly, as if unfolding a chessboard in his mind.
"What were they guarding with such devotion?"
Manuel doesn't answer right away. His eyes drift over the holographic walls, the perfectly contoured furniture, the immaculate glass—scanning the reality like it might crack open and reveal something beneath.
Too clean. Too convenient. Even the air here probably sells for the price of gold.
"Inquisitors. They were there. Tried to rob us afterward. Broke corporate protocol. Didn't work. But we found what they were hiding—an autonomous container drifting in orbit. Inside—ergon. Half a million in credits."
For a split-second, Ivor stills. His face doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. A micro-reaction. The blink lasts a little too long. Like a skipped heartbeat.
"So, what do you want from me?"
"A deal. Four hundred thousand. Take the whole container. Old friends' price."
Ivor laces his fingers. His voice turns cold—cold as a hull left in planetary shadow.
"A hundred thousand. It's worthless on the market without documentation, captain."
Silence falls. Even the water in the decorative fountain behind them seems to stop. The air thickens—dense, like the sky before a storm.
Pietro tenses.
He's not bargaining. He's cutting us. Slowly. Seeing where we bleed first.
"Three-fifty," Manuel says, calm as steel.
"Not a credit less."
Ivor locks eyes with him. His lips twitch—not from emotion, but calculation. He pulls out a stack of credit notes. Tosses it onto the table. Then another.
Pause.
"One-fifty. For old times' sake."
Manuel leans forward. His gaze turns rough—like sandpaper.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small object—a pendant. He lays it on the table between them.
"Look."
Ivor activates a scanner. A beam of light slides over the ancient pattern. His pupils dilate. For a moment, awe flickers through his expression—something close to reverence.
The silence sharpens. Even the hologram on the wall seems to dim.
"Where did you find this?"
"Same place. And nowhere else."
Ivor reaches toward the pendant.
But Manuel blocks him. Fast. A knife of a motion.
Their eyes lock—cold collides with cold. The tension coils tight, like gravity between dying stars.
Ivor grips Manuel's wrist—not with force, but attention.
The moment hovers. Their faces, breath apart.
Then Ivor lifts the amulet. Studies it.
His gaze changes. No longer just appraising. Now it's hunger—refined, barely polite greed.
Then he sees the second pendant. Hanging from Maria's neck.
His pupils spark—interest twisting into desire.
"I'll take them both," he says. His voice now bears a metallic edge.
Maria doesn't flinch. She places her hand over her pendant—calm, regal.
"No." Her voice is a blade.
"This one's mine. A gift from the captain. It's not for sale."
Ivor freezes. He's not calculating her words—he's measuring her.
Recalibrating.
But the dominance in his eyes is gone—replaced by something more uncertain. Maybe even respect.
He lays down more credits. Deliberate. Precise.
Like placing cards in the final hand of a game where every bluff could mean death.
"Two hundred fifty thousand. And one pendant."
Manuel doesn't hesitate. He extends his hand.
"Deal," he says with a faint, almost victorious smile.
"Always a pleasure, Ivor."
They shake.
Not just a transaction. A duel.
A game of power, fought without weapons. Words and glances—their bullets.
Rum flows again.
Light flickers through the crystal like trembling strings. And for a moment—it feels as if time, which had stopped in this room, begins to move again.