The door hissed open, and she stepped in like a storm finally run dry. Vexandra’s boots thudded against the steel floor, each step heavier than the last. Her tactical jacket, torn at the shoulder, slipped down her arm. Blood stained the fabric—someone else’s. Maybe. She didn’t seem to notice.

She reached the desk near the bed without a word. Her back was straight. Her breath shallow.

The plasma pistol came off her thigh with a flick. Then the knife from her boot, the throwing blades from her belt, the garrote wire from her collar, even the mini-dart launcher hidden behind her wristband. Each one laid down slowly, deliberately. No sound except the soft click of metal against metal, the ritual of a warrior removing her fangs.

She slipped onto the bed, still half in her suit. Not under the blanket—just atop it. Arms behind her head, one knee bent lazily. The artificial gravity cradled her like an exhausted tide. For once, she didn’t reach for the bottle by her bedside.