Ashar watched from the shadows, unseen.
The checkpoint still bustled with grumbling guards. The desk lady stood several meters away, chatting with a familiar bay guard. Ashar recognized the smirk on her face. It was now or never.
Moving low and slow, he crept toward the main entrance. Age had slowed him, but his movements carried the deliberate grace of experience. As he moved, laughter and flirtatious remarks echoed from the pair. They were deeply distracted—perfect.
Ashar slid up to the maintenance door. Calm breaths. Steady hands. He wedged his fingers into the small gap where he'd left the plate from the tablet, applying just enough pressure.
Crack—
He froze.
"...No way, you did that?" the desk lady squealed in delight.
Not the door. His back.
Ashar exhaled silently. Just old bones complaining again.
He eased the door open wide enough to slip through and quietly sealed it behind him.
Beyond the threshold, the landing bay buzzed with half-powered spotlights, their beams rotating across walls and catwalks. Ashar hugged the perimeter, pausing whenever light swept near, waiting for it to pass.
His back ached from the crouched movements by the time he reached the cargo bay. The area was quieter than during the day. Shadows stretched longer. Distant engines hummed faintly.
He spotted the steel security door—its red panel still flickering in the dark.
"This is it," he muttered.
From his coat, he retrieved Friederick’s device. The small contraption hissed to life as gears clicked and wires twisted. It latched onto the keypad with precision.
Click. Silence.
Then—
Beep.
A green light blinked on, and the doors slid open with a quiet hiss.
Inside was a cold-storage vault. One crate bore the "High Priority" stamp: the exotic ore. Others were filled with weapons, jewelry, or imperial goods—too risky.
Ashar pried open the marked crate. Rows of metallic bars shimmered in the low light, some native to the planet, others imported. He chose only those from local sources. Small, valuable, and less likely to be missed. He puts them in the deep pockets he had sewn on the inside of his jacket. "They seem to hold nicely." he thought. "Maybe i can pick up sewing..."
The door hissed.
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Ashar froze.
Someone was coming in.
He scrambled behind the crate, wincing as a few bars jostled in his pocket. Footsteps entered. A flashlight beam swept across the room, inching toward him.
He braced.
“Are you sure we can do it here?” a girl’s giggle broke the silence.
Ashar’s eyes narrowed.
Another voice, male, slurred with amusement: “C’mon, no one checks this place.”
Lips smacked. Moaning followed. Then—
Thud.
The crate jolted against his back.
Ashar’s grimace deepened. There were days he missed getting shot at—it was simpler than hiding from a pair of rutting idiots. He peeked—a set of legs dangled from the crate above him. There was no escaping without being seen.
He waited.
Twenty minutes crawled by.
Eventually, they stumbled off laughing, barely dressed, and disappeared down the corridor.
Ashar exhaled sharply. Lady Gabriella would have noticed something was off by now. The plan was unraveling.
He crept out and used the device to open the door again. Coast clear. He slipped into the corridor.
Ashar crouched just behind the sliding maintenance door, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. He had made it back across the bay with the exotic ore tucked inside his coat. But the way out… was blocked.
The desk lady was back at her post. Unplanned, since Ashar would already have passed here during her 20-minute break.
Her fingers tapped lazily on the metal console as she flipped through a holopad. The soft hum of low-light lamps echoed in the corridor. Ashar’s eyes darted across the space between him and the exit—no shadows left to hide in. No cover wide enough to slip past her unnoticed.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps. Not hers.
They echoed in sequence, slow but steady, from the corner of the building. A patrol guard was making his round. Ashar crouched lower, head turning slightly to catch the growing shadow crawling across the floor. It was closing in—fast.
Damn it.
He pressed his back against the wall, mind racing. His fingers curled, then loosened, then curled again.
Think, old man… think.
“Could I throw something? Create a distraction further down? No… too loud. She’ll spot me.”
“Slip past the desk when she looks away? No. Not enough time before the guard rounds the corner.”
“Pretend to be a guard? That’d require to much time to gather a uniform from the military crate.”
His eyes flicked to the far right—a small maintenance duct maybe? No, too tight. He’d never fit.
What else? What else?
He crouched deeper into the shadows, squinting toward the desk lady. Her gaze remained fixed on the holopad, but she was facing directly toward the exit.
One wrong step and she’d see him.
The guard's shadow was now just a few feet away, stretching across the ground like an omen. His footsteps clicked louder, heavier. Ashar could hear the subtle shuffle of boots, the jingle of keys, the creak of stiff armor. In a few seconds, the guard would round the corner and find him crouching here like a thief—which, of course, he was.
A trickle of sweat ran down Ashar’s temple. His knees ached. His chest tightened.
He had faced death before—many times. But age changed things. You couldn’t run as fast. Couldn’t lie as quickly. Couldn’t fight your way out the same.
He needed a miracle.
Just then, he noticed something odd.
The desk lady giggled.
But… she was alone at the desk. The sound didn’t quite match her posture. She wasn’t smiling. It sounded too far away, echoing faintly from down the corridor, near the main entrance.
Ashar’s eyes narrowed.
The guard’s footsteps stopped. His boots shifted direction slightly.
Then—
“LET’S KEEP THIS PARTY GOIN’, GUYS!!”
A voice exploded from the entrance. Laughter followed. Then a chorus of drunken shouting and singing, echoing down the corridor like a tavern gone wild.
Ashar crept an inch forward and peeked.
A group of staggering guards stumbled into view, half-draped over Gabriella’s girls, all wearing velvet, beads, and synthetic lace. Perfume clouded the air. One of the guards dropped his helmet in a drunken attempt to stand straight, tumbling right near the wall.
The desk lady jolted up from her seat. “Oh, no…” she muttered, hurrying toward the noise.
The patrolling guard cursed, looking at the commotion from afar.
Ashar saw his window.
Everything had aligned. He passed through the door and made a silent dash towards the shadowy wall he had first started. The same wall the helmet was lying.
He reached down, picked up the dropped helmet, and slid it onto his head. It was a little loose, but it would do. Gabriella’s girls subtly adjusted their positions, guiding the crowd just close enough to Ashar’s old hiding spot so he could disappear into it. He dusted himself off and emerged from the shadows, posture shifting to match the stumbling gait of the drunken group.
A girl with crimson lips caught his eye. Recognition flashed.
She smiled knowingly—and wrapped an arm around his.
“Easy there, big guy,” she said aloud, as if they were old friends. “You’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?”
Ashar chuckled under the helmet. “Not tonight.”
They blended into the group perfectly. The checkpoint guards, flustered by the noise, waved them through with exasperated sighs.
“Get them out of here before someone pukes on the terminals.”
“I don’t get paid enough for this.”
Ashar didn’t respond. He let the singing guards carry him past the checkpoint unnoticed.
He gave a subtle nod to the girl still beside him. She smiled again.
Then, just past the corner, Ashar stepped out of the group. He slipped off the helmet and dropped it.
No trace left.
As planned, he did not return to Gabriella—best to lay low.
The night had been too close.
He turned toward the dusty alleys of the district and disappeared into the shadows once more.
