Grant hadn’t been watching his trajectory. He’d been too focused on the two men tearing into his cargo container to notice the approaching hull of the other ship. When he struck it, the impact bounced him off—hard. He filed, weightless and spinning, trying to orient himself, trying to get any grip.

  Just before drifting too far, his hand caught on an antenna. His glove wrapped around it, clinging with desperation. That would’ve been one hell of a way to end things—floating into the void because he wasn’t paying attention. A game over, and a stupid one.

  But he’d made it. He was on the enemy ship.

  There were two ways in.

  The rear engineering hatch was likely locked. The forward docking port, on the other hand, was almost certainly open—and had two guys working right next to it. Grant figured if he was going to make a move, it had to be there.

  Should I shoot them before or after I get inside? he wondered, flicking off the helmet visor lights he’d forgotten to disable earlier. Rookie mistake. He drifted slowly across the hull of the ship, keeping low, keeping quiet. The docking port glowed faintly ahead. The two men were still focused, one inside the cargo container cutting something loose, the other outside passing crates downward—retive to the ship’s orientation.

  Grant crept to the opposite side of the hatch, keeping the cockpit out of view, and waited. When the man outside turned to shove another cube off into the void, Grant made his move—flipping silently into the docking port and nding inside the lock. It was tight, and he was dangerously close to the man outside. Close enough that he should have been spotted.

  But there was no sound in space.

  No creak, no thud, no intake of breath to give him away. In a pressurized environment, the man would have heard the thump of boots or hiss of suit contact. But out here? Nothing. Grant stayed still, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

  Then came the voice.

  "Uh? Who's using the lock?"

  Shit. Of course the guy in the cockpit would notice. The lock was cycling—he’d see that immediately. Grant watched the man outside peer through the tiny viewport in the hatch behind him, while someone else on the other side squinted through the opposite window. The second man leaned in, face close to the gss.

  Grant drew his arc pistol—small, compact, and blessedly non-lethal under most conditions. He wasn’t sure he could actually kill someone, not really. But this was a game. Probably.

  Still, part of him kind of wished he’d brought a real gun.

  The arc pistol could kill, if used enough. That would have to be enough.

  The inner hatch opened.

  A man stood there—half-suited, confused.

  Grant leveled the pistol and fired.

  The burst hit the man square in the chest. He screamed and dropped to the deck.

  "All hands, repel boarders! Uh—repel boarders!" a voice shouted over the comms, echoing both in Grant’s helmet and throughout the ship.

  "What do you mean, boarders? Boarded by who?" came another voice.

  Grant shot the man on the ground twice more in the facepte. The helmet snapped back, sparks fshing behind the visor. Maybe that did it. Hopefully.

  He moved through the hatch, into a cargo bay, but already regretted letting the lock cycle shut behind him. The two men outside would be coming in next, and anyone still on the ship knew exactly where he’d entered.

  Voices above.

  Grant stilled. He was underneath a grated catwalk—he couldn’t see much, but through the perforations, he caught glimpses of boots. Someone up there. Probably with a gun.

  He aimed up and fired through the grating. Energy bursts punched through the gaps in the metal.

  The man above screamed and dropped to his knees. Grant hit him again. Another scream. Then silence.

  A weapon cttered to the floor near him. Grant grabbed it. A solid, compact lead thrower. Heavy. Reliable.

  He crept forward, angling for a better view, and fired up at the same spot. Another cry. The man had gotten up—briefly. He wasn’t up anymore.

  The airlock behind him began to cycle again.

  Grant turned. The two men from outside were coming in. Unarmed. Vulnerable.

  He fired two rounds into the first one, but then hesitated. What was this gun shooting? If he breached the hull, this would get real bad, real fast.

  He switched back to the arc pistol and fired a clean shot at the second man, dropping him with a bst to the chest. As he approached, he fired twice more into the man’s head, just to be sure.

  Then everything stopped.

  Grant looked down at what he’d done.

  Unarmed men.

  Dead. By his hand.

  He could’ve taken them prisoner. Could’ve asked questions. Could’ve done literally anything other than execute them.

  Game or not, it was... cold. Maybe too cold.

  His stomach twisted.

  The air was thick with that awful burnt-electronics smell that the arc pistol always left behind—but worse, now. More human. More real.

  The scenario had gotten too close. Too vivid.

  “This is what I asked for”, he reminded himself.

  And for the first time since this all started, Grant wondered if he’d asked for the wrong thing.

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