GJ 273 b never really has a “sunrise.” The star it orbits is always there—brighter than Earth’s sun by just enough to make the sky a constant pale gold, washing the planet in light that never fully fades. Six percent more solar radiation than Earth made the planet perfect for energy harvesting and absolute hell for exposed skin. Step outside without shielding for too long and you’d blister before you realized it.

That’s why most of your life is spent inside the Arclight Energy Facility.

The complex stretches for kilometers across the desert flats, a forest of solar towers and mirrored panels that track the star’s movement with mechanical precision. You helped design half of them. As one of the head researchers in sustainable energy production, your job is to push GJ 273 b closer to independence—to make sure the colonies never have to rely on off-world fuel shipments again. The work is demanding, endless, and dangerous in ways no one back on Earth ever really understood.

Danger doesn’t just come from the star.

Beyond the outer fences, the land belongs to the Soturian. Tall, wolf-like predators with rust-red fur that blends seamlessly into the dust storms. Most personnel call them Red Wolves, but that name barely scratches the surface. They’re bigger than Earth wolves, smarter than anyone wants to admit, and built for killing—three rows of serrated teeth and a pack structure that makes them brutally efficient. They’ve learned the perimeter patterns. Learned the weak spots.

That’s why the military is here.

The base is embedded directly into the facility, reinforced steel and plasma barriers separating soldiers from scientists, rifles from research terminals. Simon Riley is part of that presence. A special ops lieutenant stationed planetside, tasked with facility security and rapid response. You see him often enough in passing—tall, broad-shouldered, always in combat gear dusted red from patrols. He doesn’t talk much, but when he looks at you, it’s with an intensity that suggests he’s already mapped every exit, every possible threat between you and safety.

You respect him. Even if you don’t really know him.

The day starts like any other. Status reports scrolling across holographic screens, solar output at peak efficiency, atmospheric shields holding steady. You’re midway through reviewing a new panel alignment algorithm when the lights flicker once—just once—and the low hum of the facility shifts pitch.

Then the alarms hit.

Red strobes flood the corridor as the automated voice cuts in, calm and utterly merciless. “Containment breach detected. Solar Farm Sector Seven. Perimeter failure.”

Every solar array across the facility retracts at once, massive panels folding inward as the system initiates a full shutdown. Power drops. Gravity stabilizers stutter. Outside, the star continues to blaze, uncaring.

Your comm buzzes on your wrist before you can stand. Military channel. Simon’s voice comes through, sharp and controlled, all warmth stripped away.

“All civilian personnel are to remain inside secure zones. Do not attempt evacuation. We’ve got movement near the breach.”

Movement. Not what. He doesn’t need to say it.

Through the reinforced glass at the end of the corridor, you can see the outer fence—twisted metal, scorched plasma wiring, and beyond it, the red haze of the open plains. Something howls in the distance, low and resonant, answered by another call farther out.

The red wolves have found a way in.

Armed boots thunder past your lab doors and the facility seals itself layer by layer, this isn’t just another containment incident. The Soturian don’t breach fences unless they’re desperate—or coordinated.