The Vanta Strain drifted like a blade through the void, silent and unseen.
Out here in the Ashlight Drift, comms died without warning, light bent wrong, and even gravity forgot how to behave. Maps twisted. Signals scattered. Most ships didn't return. The ones that did never talked about what they saw.
Rourke liked it here.
It kept people honest.
He stood at the bow observation deck, hands laced behind his back, watching a dead star peel itself apart in the distance. Crimson flares broke against the dark like waves crashing against night.
Behind him, the door hissed open.
"Report," he said, not turning.
"We've got a tail," came the gravel-worn voice of Khelra, his comms chief. "Signature matches a Union interceptor. Burn pattern says they've been following for hours."
Rourke didn't move. "They broadcast?"
"No. Just pacing us. Not close enough to lock."
"Then let 'em pace."
Khelra paused. "What if they're waiting for us to blink first?"
Rourke finally turned. Eyes like cold iron met hers.
"They should."
She didn't argue. Just nodded and left.
---
The Strain wasn't pretty. She was a patchwork war relic — old Union frame, independent mods, half her systems rewired from salvage. But she ran quiet. She hit hard. And in the Drift, that was all that mattered.
Rourke made his way to the bridge. The lights there were dim, functional. His crew worked in silence, trained into precision. They didn't salute. They didn't posture. They respected him too much to pretend he needed that.
The nav screen showed the interceptor: sleek, fast, keeping pace.
"Still just watching?" Rourke asked.
"Aye," said Arden, the pilot. "They've got better engines, but they're not moving in. Almost like…"
"Like they're waiting on someone braver to give the go," Rourke finished.
He studied the screen a moment longer. Then he stepped forward and shut it off.
"Plot a course around the Bleed Halo. No warnings. No pings. We vanish."
"Copy," Arden said, already turning the helm.
The stars outside began to drift, subtle at first — as if reality itself bent in quiet deference.
---
Rourke walked the lower corridors after that, boots echoing on steel, passing crew who gave him a respectful nod but no questions. They'd learned. You don't ask Rourke about his silence. You don't ask about the list of names etched into the wall outside the cargo bay. You don't ask why he walks the ship every night before a mission, whispering words only he hears.
You just follow the man who never runs, never breaks, never flinches.
Because the galaxy is broken.
And somehow, he still isn't.
---
In the quiet of his quarters, Rourke removed his jacket and stared at the scar just beneath his ribs — a jagged brand, crude and burned by hand. It wasn't meant to heal.
He didn't touch it. Just looked.
There were no pictures in his room. No medals. No old uniforms.
Only a single line of text engraved into the metal wall, scratched deep by a combat knife years ago:
> "Some ghosts walk beside you. Others walk inside you."
The console chimed.
Incoming job.
Encrypted.
Untraceable.
He tapped it open.
A voice — filtered, anonymous — spoke over static:
> "Captain Rourke. We have something. A retrieval. Deep-space dig site. Quiet. No flags."
Rourke said nothing.
> "The pay's high. The client's off-grid. But there's a complication."
Of course there was.
> "There's another ship en route. Union clearance. Official cover story. But we think they're after what we're after. We want it first."
Rourke leaned back, arms folded.
> "We'll send coordinates if you accept. Standard kill-free clause applies. But if fired upon…"
The voice trailed off.
Rourke stared at the screen, eyes unreadable.
Then:
"Send the coordinates."
He cut the line.
---
He didn't sleep.
He never did before missions.
Instead, he sat by the viewport again, watching the Drift pulse with red light as the dead star continued to burn — slow, endless, and quiet.
In the reflection, he saw his face.
And behind it — faint, flickering — a shadow.
A shape that didn't belong.
He turned.
Nothing there.
But the cold remained.
---
Somewhere far away…
Inside a sealed chamber on a Union vessel, a man studied a profile.
Elian Rourke. Former Fleet Commander. Disavowed. Dangerous.
"No war crimes on record?" asked the younger officer beside him.
"No," the man replied, voice flat. "Because what he did was authorized."
"Then why are we hunting him?"
The officer turned. His expression unreadable.
"Because some men don't stay buried."