Rafian At The Edge 50 ●

Rafian approached slowly, his hand resting on the old kinetic pistol strapped to his thigh. He tapped the hull with a magnetic hammer. Three short beats. A pause. Two beats back.

He carried the woman back up the gantry, the winch straining against the storm that was just beginning to howl across the Scar. The wind carried shards of ice that pinged against his helmet like shrapnel. His arms burned. His chest heaved. rafian at the edge 50

The dust on Titan never settles. It hangs in the cinnamon air, a perpetual twilight of silicate grit and methane frost. Rafian Kael liked it that way. The haze hid things—old things, dangerous things, and most importantly, him . Rafian approached slowly, his hand resting on the

“Rafian,” a voice crackled from the console behind him. It was soft, synthesized, and patient. “Your cortisol levels are elevated. You haven’t slept in thirty-one hours.” A pause