Darkness. Silence. The kind that feels endless.
Zeck Bennett lay slumped in the captain’s chair, blood trickling from a deep gash across his temple. The air inside Iron Vulture was thin—life support failing, oxygen reserves nearly gone. The battle was over. He had won… if limping away half-dead counted as victory.
His crew was gone. The ship was ruined. And he was alone.
He exhaled, forcing his trembling fingers to work. A flickering console barely responded as he punched in an SOS signal. The distress beacon crackled to life, a weak transmission pulsing into the void. There was no guarantee anyone would come.
Time blurred. Hours? Days? He drifted in and out of consciousness. His throat was parched, his stomach a hollow pit.
Then—
A metallic clang echoed through the ship.
Zeck’s eyes snapped open. Someone had docked.
He reached for his sidearm, but his limbs were sluggish, weak. The airlock hissed open, flooding the dim room with pale, artificial light. Boots clicked against the floor, moving with a steady, controlled pace. Trained. Military.
Then he saw her.
A figure stepped through the doorway—a young woman, early twenties. Slender, but the way she moved told him everything: combat experience, discipline, precision. Her black tactical vest was fitted with straps, pouches, and weapons. The hooded sweatshirt and cargo pants gave her the look of someone who valued practicality over appearance.
Her eyes—light-colored, cold, unreadable— locked onto his. A black beanie covered her head, and a face mask concealed everything but her gaze.
“You must be Zeck Bennett.” His throat was too dry to answer. She stepped closer, pulling a small canteen from her vest and tossing it onto his lap. Water. He wasted no time, unscrewing the lid and drinking deep. The first swallow burned, but he kept going. She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “I’m the cavalry.” Zeck wiped his mouth, exhaling a ragged breath. “…The hell kind of cavalry wears a hoodie?” “The kind they send when it’s really bad.”