The market beneath Park Planet never slept—it flickered. Neon signs buzzed overhead, painting the metal corridors in electric color. Sparky leaned against a rusted shuttle, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching smugglers, scavengers, and hustlers flow through the chaos.

Three trades today. None honest. All profitable enough.

“Keep the current flowing, keep the credits moving,” he muttered. With no jobs waiting, he drifted through the crowd and slipped into a shadowed bar tucked between vendor stalls. The house special tasted like bad decisions and industrial cleaner. He ordered a double.

For a few minutes, he enjoyed the burn and the noise. Then a shadow fell across his table. Sparky didn't look up. Lighting another cigarette, he exhaled smoke and smirked.

“If you're selling, make it quick. If you're buying, make it worth my time.”