A new day arises, with new challenges. The sun had just begun peeking over the horizon, and a reluctant cry echoed in the silence—like a rusty rooster announcing the start of the day.

  Ashar jolted awake, joints creaking in protest like rusted gears refusing to turn. Faint morning light spilled through the gaps in the corrugated metal roof, casting bars of pale gold across the floor. He sat up slowly, letting his breath settle before he scooped the baby from a tattered bundle of cloth near the wall. The rusted table groaned under its own weight as he set the child down. There was still some ground vegetables left—enough for one more feeding. As he spooned it into the child’s mouth, Ashar’s expression darkened.

  A workday.

  For the lower class on this planet, work was always take it or leave it. But with his savings thinning, he had no choice. Despite his age, Ashar was one of the few allowed to skip the line at the bay’s logistics division. Years of inventory work had earned him that right. Still, he’d never had to do it with a child at home.

  No choice. Friederick will have to do.

  He wrapped the baby in the basket and stepped into the dusty street, where the air still clung to the cold of night. Sunlight cut through smoke trails overhead, bathing the town in a burnt orange hue. As expected, Friederick sat hunched on the curb outside his patchwork shack—metal sheets, scorched tarpaulin, and rusted hinges barely holding together. gloved fingers moving with practiced precision. A worn aviator cap, buckled tight beneath his chin, shielded his greying hair and brow from the ever-blowing dust. He wore his usual leather poncho, frayed at the edges, busy winding copper wire into some crude mechanical device.

  “I need you to look after him,” Ashar said. “I’ll take him back after my shift.”

  Friederick barely looked up. He peered inside the basket, face unreadable. “Alright, I guess…” he grunted.

  “After all these favors I do for you, you better pay me back big, Ashar,” he added, still not meeting Ashar’s eyes. “Speaking of favors, the device is almost ready. Tonight or tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks. You know I’ll pay you back.”

  As Ashar turned to leave, Friederick finally looked up—but not toward the market. His gaze drifted skyward, toward the pale morning light breaking over the scrapyard horizon. He stared for a moment before quietly returning to his work.

  Ashar walked the dusty streets toward the checkpoint near the town’s center.

  “Name?” The guard didn’t bother looking up, just scribbled lazily on a clipboard mounted to his arm. His armor was faded and patched—clearly hand-me-downs from a better world.

  “Ashar,” he said, steady but clipped, leaving off the surname like always. Around here, too many names raised too many questions.

  “Ashar… Bay logistics. Alright, you’re on the list. Move on. Next!”

  As Ashar passed through, another guard leaned toward the first.

  “You going to Withering Night tonight? Lady Gabriella’s supposed to be there.”

  “Yeah? Who’s the party for?”

  “Jethro. Post seven at the cargo bay. Bunch of others, too.”

  Ashar let a smirk creep onto his face and kept walking.

  The dropship bay roared with life—hydraulics hissing, steel grinding, comms crackling in a dozen voices. Ships the size of buildings hovered just above the platform edge, their engines kicking up spirals of red dust. Cargo units clanged against the reinforced deck as workers shouted instructions, drowned out by the rising hum of another arrival. The acrid scent of oil, sweat, and exhaust burned in his nose.. Forklifts zipped between stacks of crates. Ashar entered through a narrow corridor toward the logistics checkpoint. A female guard behind the desk looked up.

  “Ashar. Still kicking, I see. Here’s your pad. You’re on bays three, five, and six today.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She seemed joyful, but there was a slight sense of disappointment behind her voice, probably because the guard she chats with isn't on duty today.

  She slid him a touchscreen tablet and buzzed him through the inner doors. He gave a subtle glance at the inside of the frame while brushing the back of the tablet—an old habit stirring to life.

  It’ll do, he thought.

  Back outside, Ashar moved through his assigned zones. Dropships unloaded crates of raw ore, dried meats, and other rough supplies. Workers from the lower districts handled most of the labor—hauling, lifting, dragging. Some wore cracked armor; others only dust-stained shirts. Occasionally, slaves brought in cartloads of minerals from nearby mines.

  He cataloged every item with practiced ease. But he watched, too. Eyes scanned the emblems on the dropships, searching for the one with the flower crest. Nothing.

  As the sun dipped lower, the guards rotated shifts. Some wore bored faces. Others staggered out of duty, already drunk—likely early guests of tonight’s festivities. Ashar quietly filed that detail away.

  Before leaving, Ashar veered toward the deeper end of the cargo bay. The air was cooler here, quieter—like the place held its breath. Beyond the regular stacks of dried meat and ore, he passed rows of crates with embossed seals and thick padlocks. Some were guarded, others marked with flickering red panels—access denied, high priority. His steps slowed slightly as he passed one door with faint energy lines running along the frame. That one’s new.

  He didn’t linger—but he didn’t forget.

  By the shift’s end, he returned the tablet. The woman at the desk barely glanced at him before handing over five metal plates—credits.

  As he passed the square, the sky had gone red behind the town’s skeletal skyline. The soft glow of the pleasure district blinked to life. But Friederick wasn’t at his usual curb.

  Ashar knocked once. Metal scraped from within. Friederick opened the door with his usual neutral stare.

  “I had to feed him,” he muttered.

  Ashar looked past him. The baby sat on the floor, playing with a mechanical trinket—one of Friederick’s unfinished projects.

  Ashar sighed. “Fine. Here’s a credit.”

  The metal plate passed from hand to hand.

  The baby laughed. As Ashar bent to lift the basket, the child beamed, waving the little gadget with pride. Friederick gave a grunt and turned away, already back at his window.

  Ashar made the silent walk home, boots creaking on dusted metal. The baby cooed softly behind him, still clinging to the toy.

  From his seat, Friederick gazed upward—past the town, past the ships, to the stars.

  Just for a moment.

  Then the night swallowed him whole.

  Ashar returned home, the baby next to the bed, tired from a long day of fidgeting with metal scraps. Ashar lay down, thoughts still spinning. Tomorrow would bring more than routine.

  Sleep came slowly.

  A new morning. Another cry. Another feeding. Another plan.

  Ashar passed the market, but turned down a quieter road—toward the red-light district. The Withering Night stood still in the pale light, its usual neon glow dimmed. Workers moved quietly, cleaning the entrance, straightening tables.

  Lady Gabriella appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Ashar?”

  He nodded toward an empty table beside him. She scanned the room, ensuring the girls were busy, then sat across from him.

  “Are we still good for tonight?” he asked.

  “Certainly. The girls are nearly done prepping. They won’t cause you any trouble.” She gave a knowing smile. “Neither will the guards.”

  “You have the other thing I asked for?”

  She reached beneath her cloak and handed over a folded bundle of notes. “I scribbled most of it down. I hope it’s enough.”

  “It will be. Thank you.”

  “No worries. I know I’ll get my share. Besides, you’ve done me a few solids already,” she said with a grin.

  Ashar hesitated, then leaned forward. “Can you do me one more?”

  Gabriella tilted her head. “What is it?”

  “The baby. At my place.”

  She blinked, then smirked. “Ariana would love to watch him. Don’t worry. He’s a little lady-killer already.”

  Ashar raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s already the talk of the place,” she chuckled. “The baby of the mysterious Ashar—grandson, secret affair? You know how rumors fly.”

  Ashar frowned and stood up.

  He took the notes with a silent nod and exited. Curious glances followed him from the girls at the entrance, but he didn’t stop.

  Back at the square, Friederick leaned against the wall, tossing the trinket into the air and catching it one-handed.

  “It’s finished,” he said without emotion. “Should do the job.”

  “You have the payment?” he added.

  Ashar handed over the notes. A smooth exchange.

  Friederick thumbed through them. “The Hochhaus Monument’s almost finished, huh…” he muttered. Still scanning. “Why would they accept that?”

  He fell silent, lost in the document. Ashar turned and walked away without another word.

  At the door, he paused and looked up at the sky.

  A small sigh left his lips.

  Later, Ariana stood at Ashar’s door, bundled against the dust. “Hey there!”

  Ashar gave a curt nod and let her inside. He quickly explained where things were, how to feed the baby, what to avoid. Ariana smiled, already cooing over the child.

  Then Ashar was off again.

  New guards at the checkpoint.

  “Next. Come on, move it!” barked one, irritation sharp. “Name?”

  “Ashar.”

  He passed through, catching a snippet of conversation.

  “Loy, what’s wrong with you?” one asked.

  “Damn Deacon. He’s off to the party tonight. I’ve got an extra hour because of it.”

  “Eh, you’re not the only one. Sounds like it’s gonna be a big party…”

  Ashar paid it no mind.

  “Bay two and four today, Ashar,” the woman behind the counter said, without looking up.

  Back through the familiar sliding door. Back to routine. No flower emblem.

  Hours passed. The sky dimmed. The bay grew quiet.

  Merchants departed for orbit or retreated to the pleasure district. Guards rotated again. The air felt tense—some grumbled over long shifts; others sulked in silence.

  Ashar took another slow pass through the cargo bay. Crates are stacked like yesterday. Locks untouched. The same heavy steel doors glowing faintly at the far end.

  The woman opened the sliding door for his exit.

  As he passed through, he let a small metal plate slip from his sleeve. It landed along the inside frame with a faint click—just enough to stop the lock.

  He handed back the tablet.

  “It fell. The backplate slipped off between a crate,” he said casually. “Still works, though.”

  The woman frowned. “Well, at least it still runs. That’s a credit off.”

  But her tone was lighter than usual—pleasant, even. Ashar knew today was one of the rare shifts when she’d chat with the landing bay guard. From her reaction, it was clear: she fancied him.

  The door slid shut behind him with a dull metallic thud.

  But it didn’t lock.

  Ashar continued walking until he reached the first checkpoint.

  He stopped.

  Then, slowly, he stepped to the side, slipping into the shadows beside the outer wall.

  He waited.