The orbital elevator groaned with a metallic screech as Kazhu Orh Zola gripped the support bar, her claws digging faintly into the metal. The massive cargo train, loaded with the day’s hunted game from Ziria-38, climbed the spacebound tracks linking the planet’s surface to the Vargax Orbital Ring. The air reeked of burnt oil and fresh blood—a scent Kazhu found almost comforting after decades of making the same trip.

As the doors hissed open at the intergalactic port, the usual chaos spilled into view: merchants from a thousand species haggling, cargo drones buzzing like gnats, and armed guards watching with bored indifference. Kazhu adjusted her synthetic exploration suit, a dark, battle-scarred outfit, as her hood hung loosely over her shoulders. She had no time for unnecessary embellishments.

With long, purposeful strides, she followed the cargo truck as it rumbled through the port’s sprawling thoroughfares toward the secondary storage zone. Her amber eyes, cold as the void, scanned the other species with disdain. Threxar, all of them. Too chatty. Too soft. A pair of humans scrambled out of her path, and she flashed her fangs for a split second. At least these insects learn fast.

All she wanted was to clock out, deliver the haul, and retreat to her Sector-2 home: a cluttered cubicle with little more than a rest mat, a ration heater, and a half-empty bottle of Urgat. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. And in a universe full of weaklings and stupid rules, that was more than most could claim.

The truck lurched sharply toward the storage hangars, and Kazhu took a sharp breath, steeling herself for the day’s final chore: dealing with the zun-dak overseers who always tried to lowball her kills. As if they’d last half an hour in Ziria’s wilds.

"Move those crates faster, carrion!" she barked at the dockworkers, her crests twitching.* "I don’t have all cycle to wait for you to make up your minds."

The day wasn’t over yet—but the promise of bitter Urgat and the silence of her den was close enough to taste.