Rafian At The Edge 50 < PRO × Series >

He carried the woman back up the gantry, the winch straining against the storm that was just beginning to howl across the Scar. The wind carried shards of ice that pinged against his helmet like shrapnel. His arms burned. His chest heaved.

He pried the emergency hatch using a manual spreader. The interior was dark and cold. A single emergency lumen stick glowed weakly in the corner, illuminating a figure strapped into a crash couch. rafian at the edge 50

Hope.

Rafian’s first instinct was to ignore it. Survivors meant complications. Questions. Often, they meant bullets. But the Edge 50 was starving. His water recycler was leaking, his food printer had been making the same gray protein paste for six months, and the last salvage run had yielded nothing but scrap wire and a dead man’s boot. He carried the woman back up the gantry,

“I know, Juno.”