The Hollow

The ship’s thrusters flared, blasting a wave of hot air and steam across the rooftop.

Kael shielded his eyes as the vessel rose, turning into a black silhouette against the stormy gray clouds, before vanishing toward the gleaming spire of the Upper City.

He was alone.

The rain beat down on him, harder now. The bandage on his cheek—the strip of silk she had tied there—was soaked through, heavy and sodden against his skin.

Kael looked down at his hand.

The credit chip was warm. It pulsed with that beautiful, golden light. Fifty thousand credits.

He had won. He had beaten the Rust Yards. He could walk into the immigration office tomorrow and buy his life.

He gripped the chip tight, waiting for the relief to wash over him. He waited for the triumph.

It didn't come.

Instead, the wind felt colder than it ever had before. The neon lights of the slums below looked like open sores.

Kael reached up and ripped the silk bandage from his face. He let it drop to the wet rooftop. It lay there, a small, white scrap of kindness in a world of gray.

He put the money in his pocket. It felt like a stone.

Kael turned and walked toward the stairwell, rich, alive, and entirely, utterly hollow.