The jump was rougher than usual.
Not because the coordinates were unstable, but because the core was overheating—again. The stolen tech wasn't built for back-to-back folds. Space screamed around them for 0.6 seconds as reality bent, flipped, and locked again.
When they reappeared, they weren't on a planet.
They were inside a floating cargo void between two artificial moons orbiting Arkon-9—a trading hub known only to outlaws and exiles. The void, masked from scanners by a blackhole mimic, was their unofficial safehouse.
As they landed, the core powered down with a cough of static.
> "That was too close," said Vian, scanning the fold log. "FoldNet almost cornered us mid-leap. Another few seconds and we'd have been sliced between dimensions."
Pulse pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the crate of Gravite dust.
> "Then let's not waste time. We need to offload the antimatter before someone tracks the ripple signature."
Sairaj, still silent, opened the security panel on the far wall. His fingers danced across the holographic keys as he reactivated the interior cloaking mesh.
Inside the vault room, three items glowed:
—A cube of pure antimatter,
—A sphere of blue-stripped starstone,
—And a bottle containing engineered time-flux gel.
> "That gel alone could buy us a satellite," muttered Ravi.
> "Or get us killed," added Ishan, checking the local news net. "They're looking for us on seven systems. Our Europa signature is already public. Someone's leaking coordinates."
Vian looked up sharply.
> "No one knows but us. No AI, no handler."
> "Unless," said Pulse, "someone is watching us from inside the FoldNet."
They fell into silence.
It wasn't paranoia. In their line of work, suspicion was safety.
Just then, a faint click echoed from the entrance hatch.
Everyone froze.
> "Was that—" Sairaj started, the first words he'd spoken in weeks.
The hatch rotated. Slowly. Deliberately.
> "We weren't followed," whispered Ishan. "I checked the ripple—"
But before he could finish, the door opened.
A figure stepped inside. Cloaked in neural mesh, face hidden behind a distortion field. Not armed—but dangerous.
The figure spoke, voice glitching between languages.
> "You're late."
Pulse stepped forward, narrowing his eyes.
> "And you are…?"
The figure removed their hood.
It was a woman none of them recognized—but she knew each of them by name.
> "My name is Elara. I represent The Entropic Syndicate. And I'm here with a job."