Galt’s hand trembled against Iolla's ribs, the muzzle of the slug-thrower digging through her tunic. The chill of steel against bone dredged up years spent huddled in the refuse-strewn corners of the Grimmaw Sector, waiting out his shifts. She remembered the sting of his open hand across her cheek, the taste of dust and blood in her mouth. She was six, maybe seven, and he’d just smashed her scavenged datapad, claiming it was stolen. She had survived him by staring past his collarbones, letting a slack, vacant grin settle over her mouth. It made her look harmless. It made her look stupid. It made him pause, sometimes, a flicker of disgust replacing his fury, before he’d turn away, believing her too dim to bother with further punishment. Now, Galt’s bloodshot gaze stayed locked on Arkady, ignoring her completely. He saw her as an object, a bargaining chip, nothing more. She flicked her eyes past Galt’s shoulder toward the biometric sensor above the frame, then to Arkady, whose barrel remained fixed to Zanech's throat. She had only a few seconds. She had to act. Her lips parted. Her mouth twitched into an empty, guileless beam, loose-jawed and dull. It was the same smile from the Grimmaw Sector, perfected through years of pain. Galt’s eyes, still darting, snagged on it for a fleeting instant. His brow furrowed in a moment of confused contempt, exactly as she’d hoped. He still saw nothing but a vacant-minded girl. With that minute distraction secured, Iolla moved. Her left heel, encased in a low-profile boot from Arkady’s wardrobe, lifted barely an inch from the polished durasteel floor. It descended with a whisper-soft tap, a rhythm only she could feel. In the ceiling struts, the Spire's automated grid picked up the signal from the beacon she had planted in Galt's coat pocket before the breach. An overhead pressure valve hissed. Before Galt could even register the sound, a high-pressure stream of dense, iridescent white foam erupted from a discreet nozzle directly above him. The spray engulfed Galt, calcifying against his shoulders and arms into dense, chalky resin before he could squeeze the trigger. His arms were pinned, the slug-thrower clattering uselessly to the floor. His panicked struggles were muffled, reduced to a desperate, twitching cocoon of white. The slug-thrower struck the tiles with a heavy clatter. Burdock chattered shrilly from the carpet, scuttling back on all six limbs away from the expanding crust. Arkady wrenched Zanech forward by the collar. “You broke my peace,” Arkady stated, his voice devoid of any human warmth, flat and utterly final. His hand, still gripping Zanech’s collar, gave a sharp yank, pulling the Magnate’s face inches from his own. Zanech gasped, staring down the unblinking muzzle. Without blinking, Arkady fired. The concussive crack shook the glass panels, and Zanech dropped instantly onto the tiles. His crimson sigil, embroidered on his tailored tunic, was now marred by a darker, spreading stain. Arkady let the sidearm tumble from his grip, his attention fixing instantly on Iolla. He crossed the floor in two strides, hauling her against his chest with reckless force. His arms wound around her with a possessiveness that verged on suffocating, burying his face in her hair, shuddering against her. The stench of cordite and bitter foam clung to his coat as his grip tightened over her ribs. “Mine,” he murmured, the word ragged, torn from some deep, hidden part of him. “You’re mine. Safe.” Below them, hydraulic rams shuddered against the lower blast doors as private security teams breached the perimeter. Their heavy boots echoed through the ventilation shafts, a promise of impending intervention. Iolla drew the folded parchment of the custody transfer out from beneath her waistband, where she had kept it tucked since dawn. She drove both palms into his sternum, breaking his hold, and stepped back into the open space. He looked utterly bewildered, like a child denied a comfort he believed was his by right. She held up the crumpled papers, her hand trembling slightly, but her voice was clear, cutting through the lingering tension, through the distant sounds of breaching teams. “You bought me,” she declared, her eyes meeting his, devoid of the scavenger’s smile or the ditzy facade. “But I quit.”

Scavenger's Smile