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“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Talia.”

“No.”

I twisted as far as the passage allowed, my shoulder scraping against a coolant line.

His shirt was dark along one side, wet where the fabric met his ribs. Blood had soaked through in a long ragged line, and it was still spreading, slow and deliberate.

Not pouring. Still more than I liked.

“Is it deep?”

“No.”

“You said that about your hand.”

“This is also minor.”

“You have a very suspicious definition of minor.”

A metallic sound came from behind the panel. Someone was trying to open it.

Veyr’s expression changed. “Move.”

We moved.

The utility passage ended at a vertical service ladder.

Darev went first.

I followed.

Veyr came last.

We emerged behind the repair yard.

For half a second, everything was quiet—just the drip of condensation from an overhead pipe and the distant hum of machinery.

Then a fourth Zunatorian male stepped from behind the transport. Gray axŭ. Pale yellow ŭre simmering beneath his jaw. His weapon was already raised, barrel levelled at my chest.

Veyr shoved me sideways. My shoulder hit the rough wall plating as energy flashed past my face. The shot meant for me caught Veyr high on the arm. Blood sprayed in a fine mist, droplets hitting the transport’s side with soft, dark taps.

I screamed his name.

Veyr turned. His ŭre didn’t flare—it detonated. Silver-white current raced beneath his axŭ from throat to wrists, bright enough to throw sharp-edged reflections across the metal siding.

The attacker fired again.

Veyr moved—a blur of motion that left afterimages. He hit the male before the second shot landed. One hand caught the weapon. Current surged through it. The weapon’s internal lights flickered and died, smoke curling from the housing.

Then Veyr drove the male backward into the transport. The impact echoed through the yard.

The attacker swung a wild punch.