ARROCK

The sun pierced through the grime-smeared window of Daemon's unit like a silent scream, loud in its brightness, wrong in its timing. He opened his eyes to a white ceiling stained with time, his breath shallow, his shirt clinging to him as if trying to pull him back into the dream he couldn't remember. Sweat soaked the sheet beneath him, and for a few seconds, he lay still, trying to remember from the night.

Nothing.

Only a lingering dread, a sensation like falling without ever landing.

His apartment was a cube, barely bigger than a cabin of a salaryman. A bed, a toilet, a rust-bitten kitchenette, and the half-broken door to the restroom defined its borders. The walls were a dull gray, the color of regret, and the only decor was a flickering light above his sink that never decided whether to live or die.

He sat up, peeling himself from the soaked sheet. The fabric clung to him like skin. Daemon muttered, "What the **** Was I dreaming?"

The door to the restroom hung on a single hinge, creaking as it moved with the stale recycled air. He shuffled toward it, bare feet slapping against cold metal. Inside, he splashed water on his face from a sink that coughed before it complied. The mirror was cracked, spiderwebbed through the center, reflecting his fragmented self.

Tired eyes stared back. Dark crescents underlined them like bruises. His hair was a mess of sweat and sleep. He leaned closer.

"Come on... remember," he whispered. But the more he tried to grasp the dream, the more it slithered away into oblivion.

He gave up.

In the kitchenette, the hunt for food was grim. A crumb-covered shelf and an empty nutrient packet mocked him until he spotted a piece of bread one quarter eaten, mold kissing the edge. He tore the salvageable half and chewed slowly. The rest, he wrapped in old synth plastic and tucked into a drawer.

Always save for later.

His toolbag waited in the corner. Heavy, cold, and necessary. He slung it over his shoulder, gave one last glance to the bed where he'd drowned in night-sweat, then stepped to the door and locked it with a hiss. The corridor outside buzzed with flickering overhead lights and the hum of electricity flowing through old veins.

Mooyam.

An habitable planet in the EDTA system, or at least the only one where survival didn't come with a death wish. But no one stayed here by choice. Daemon was like everyone else on Mooyam: stuck, scraping, dreaming of Malit.

Malit.

Eight hundred fifty million kilometers away, yet every ad plastered across Mooyam made it feel closer than breath. Digital posters pulsed on every wall, every pillar, every skytram. "Live Where the Sky Breathes." "Raise Your Children in the Green Cradle." "Malit: Humanity's Garden."

All courtesy of Arrock.

The megacorp Arrock was more than a company; it was society. It owned the stars. And Daemon, like most, worked for them, mining minerals from Mooyam's crust and core.

He walked the cracked streets, synthetic boots tapping the surface of a planet that never felt like home. The sky above was a dull amber, choked with pollutants and ash, and the only green on the planet came from advertising screens.

As he turned a corner, the sound of engines roared through the sky. Not the low hum of cargo ships or the clatter of public trams.

This was different.

He looked up. Everyone did.

The massive body of a black-and-chrome Alliance warship descended toward the Imperial Building at the heart of the city. Its underbelly glowed with blue light, its sides lined with weaponry and insignias of past conquests. It was a vulture in descent, slow and deliberate.

People stopped walking. Some dropped their bags. Others dropped to their knees.

Because when that ship arrived, it only meant one thing.

War.

Daemon's chest tightened. The dream, the one he couldn't remember, felt like it had just reached out and touched him.

And for the first time in days, he felt awake.