The air inside the underground garage was thick with the scent of ozone, damp moss, and the pervasive, chemical rot of the Rustlands. Varek’s sanctuary was a labyrinth of salvaged scrap, lit by flickering, low-wattage bulbs that buzzed like trapped insects. Kaelion sat on a crate, his breath hitching as his body attempted to knit together a shattered rib. Across from him, Nyvara was methodically cleaning her sidearm, her eyes darting toward the heavy steel door every few seconds."You’re too tense," Kaelion rasped, his voice sounding like gravel under a boot.Nyvara didn't look up, her hands moving with machine-like precision. "I’m observant, Kaelion. There’s a difference. We’re deep in the scrap-pickers' territory, but Zarek’s net is wider than you think. If they tracked our flight path, they’ll have ground teams sweeping the sector within the hour.""Let them come," Kaelion muttered, though his hand drifted toward the dull ache in his side. "I’ve had enough of running.""Run or die,