A tungsten bulb, missing its shade, pulsed a sickly yellow over Kaja’s face. The unsteady glow drove an ache deep behind her temples, drumming in time with the sour aftermath of cheap liquor. Her tongue felt like felt, sandpapered dry. A thin, synthetic sheet, smelling faintly of disinfectant and something musky she couldn’t quite place, clung to her. She peeled an eyelid open, then the other, the cheap motel room slowly resolving itself from a blur of bad decisions. Then she saw it. A rock the size of a pigeon’s egg, faceted and brilliant, glinted on her left hand. It was an absurdity, a miniature sun on her ring finger, dwarfing the calluses from years of wrestling cargo manifests. She stared, uncomprehending, then a memory, fractured and hazy, surfaced: a chapel, tiny and garish, smelling of lilies and stale beer. An officiant with a sequined tie. Laughter. Her own laughter. Beside her, a warmth. A long, lean body. She stiffened, a sharp, cold dread replacing the dull ache of her head. Slowly, she turned her head. Bram Coda. His face, usually armored in smug composure, was relaxed in sleep, dark lashes fanned across high cheekbones. A rumpled sheet hung low across his hips, revealing the sharp line of his collarbones, the pale scar scored into his abdomen. Her rival. The grating, perpetually smug, ostensibly broke owner of Coda Haulage, who’d undercut her on every prime shipping contract along the docks. And he was naked in her bed. “No,” she whispered, the sound a raw rasp. She tried to bolt upright, but her head swam. The gemstone on her hand caught the light again, mocking her. This couldn’t be real. The last clear detail was a swallow of burning grain spirit, Bram’s low rasp, and a dare. Always a dare with Bram. He stirred, a slow, languid stretch that rippled through his back muscles. A grunt. His grey-green eyes blinked open, focusing on her with startling clarity. A lazy grin curved his mouth. “Morning, wife,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, yet laced with his usual dry amusement. He reached out, his fingers brushing the diamond on her hand. “Nice rock.” “Wife?” Her voice cracked. “What in the hells happened, Coda?” He chuckled, a low, rich sound that seemed utterly out of place in the dingy room. “Well, you proposed. After three ‘Atomic Blasters’ and a particularly spirited rendition of ‘Crimson Tide’ at the karaoke bar.” He pushed himself up, resting on an elbow, his gaze sweeping over her, unhurried, almost possessive. “Said I was the only man who could ever match your stubbornness.” Kaja felt a hot flush crawl up her neck. “I don’t remember any of that. And why would I propose to *you*? You’re as broke as I am, always driving that beat-up old ‘Behemoth’ truck. This ring probably cost more than your entire fleet.” Bram shrugged, a ripple of muscle under taut skin. “It was Vegas, Kaja. Things happen. Besides, don’t you remember saying something about ‘securing our future’? It was quite romantic, actually. For you, anyway.” He reached for his discarded shirt on the floor, pulling it over his head, covering the corded muscle of his chest. He looked disturbingly normal now, save for the smug glint in his eyes. Bile rose in her throat, only partly from the alcohol. She pressed both palms to her temples. Her planned haven for dockside strays, the derelict brick depot that was her sole stake in the district—everything hung on a razor wire. They ended up at a diner, the kind with sticky menus and coffee that tasted like regret. Outside, the Vegas sun was a brutal, unforgiving glare, but inside, the neon signs still hummed, casting lurid pinks and blues over the plastic booths. Kaja nursed a black coffee, her mind racing, trying to find a lifeline in the wreckage. “This is impossible,” she muttered, pushing a greasy hash brown around her plate. “A shotgun wedding with my closest competitor. My life is officially a bad holofilm.” Bram, across from her, was devouring a stack of pancakes with an almost unsettling calm. “Well, it’s done. We signed the papers. Judge Grimshaw himself officiated. Very reputable.” He looked up, a crumb of pancake clinging to his stubble. “Though I admit, the alimony might be tough. My Coda Haulage accounts aren’t exactly overflowing.” Kaja’s eyes narrowed. “Shut up about your accounts. We’re getting this annulled the second we get back to Ghavar. There’s no way I’m letting this… this *farce*… ruin everything.” Then, a thought, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, pierced through her self-pity. The Ghavar City Council. The property grant. She recalled reading about it: a niche municipal incentive for married couples to revitalize derelict commercial parcels. A substantial sum, enough to cover the deed, even the initial patch jobs on the waterfront structure. Her ribs tightened around her lungs. That building. Her haven. This wasn’t a disaster; it was a… a loophole. A terrifying, humiliating, yet undeniably perfect loophole. “The City Council,” she muttered, her voice rough, then sharpening. “The revitalization grant. For married couples.” Bram paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. His grey gaze caught hers, steady and unreadable. “Go on.” “The North Quay depot,” she pressed, leaning forward, the jewel catching the fluorescent bulb. “It’s sat empty for decades. It has solid footings and dry rafters. The municipal funds clear the purchase price and the roof repairs. I hold the deed.” His expression remained impassive. “And what does this have to do with our… unexpected nuptials?” “We stay married,” she blurted out. “For six months. Just long enough to secure the grant, get the deed. A fake marriage. A business arrangement.” Her pride bristled at the words, but the image of Levin, of the street kids she envisioned saving, pushed it down. “You get… I don’t know. A percentage of future profits? Bragging rights that you ‘saved’ my non-profit?” Bram leaned back, a slow smile playing on his lips. “Six months. A percentage of a non-profit’s ‘profits’ sounds a bit thin, Kaja. And I’d have to live somewhere. My current apartment barely fits my collection of vintage engine parts.” “My couch,” she said, gritting her teeth. “You can sleep on my couch. And you keep your hands to yourself. No… no funny business. This is purely transactional.” He considered her for a long moment, his gaze unnervingly intense. “Agreed. Six months. Your couch. And no funny business.” He extended a hand across the table, his fingers strong and warm as they clasped hers, the diamond on her finger pressing into his palm. “Welcome to the partnership, Mrs. Coda.” The words tasted like ash. Just as she was about to pull her hand back, her comm unit buzzed, a frantic, insistent vibration against her thigh. It was Levin. His name flashed, illuminated by the lurid diner light. She snatched it up, a knot forming in her stomach. “Levin? What’s wrong?” His voice rattled thin and frantic against the speaker. “Kaja! You gotta get back here, quick. They’re moving in. The Drevniks. Right onto our strip. They’re locking down the North Quay depot. Clearing out anyone on the block. It’s bad, Kaja. Really bad.” The blood drained from Kaja’s face. The Drevnik Syndicate. Ruthless, ancient, notorious. The very reason she needed to secure the warehouse so quickly. Her sanctuary. Her brother. They were both in their crosshairs now. The hopper flight home passed in a tense, silent haze. Salt mist smeared the transport’s scratched portholes as they dropped below the cloud deck, smudging the district’s sodium lamps into yellow smears. The air turned brackish and cold as the skiff touched down above the cobblestone alleys of the Narrows. Kaja’s apartment building loomed, a skeletal outline against the perpetual twilight. Rain had begun to fall, a fine, chilling mist. She fumbled with her keys, her heart thudding against her ribs, a new, unsettling dread creeping in. Levin’s frantic call echoed in her ears. But the keys weren’t needed. The heavy oak door hung ajar, splintered splinters hanging from the latch. A cold draft spilled from the dark interior. A raw, metallic scent hung in the air. Kaja pushed the door open slowly, her hand going to the worn stun-baton she kept tucked in her boot. Bram was right behind her, his presence a solid, unsettling anchor in the gloom. The living room was a mess. Cushions torn, books strewn, a cheap ceramic vase shattered on the floor. But it was the wall that seized her attention, stealing the air from her lungs. Scrawled in something thick and dark, dripping sluggishly down the peeling wallpaper, was a single, stark word: *VACATE.*

The Neon Hangover