The air inside the capsule was thick, heavy with ozone and oxidized metal. Darkness devoured everything, except for a single red light blinking with a funeral rhythm over the hatch, counting down the last seconds before impact.

  A mechanical voice—cold as an orbital tomb—echoed in her communicator once more, identical to every other time.

  —Minimum distance to target reached.

  Nébula straightened with precise, almost inhuman movements. The servomotors of her exoskeleton let out the same low hum as always when the dorsal thrusters locked into place.

  The same.

  Always the same.

  Her breathing was slow and controlled; her pulse a flawless, clean wave, as if her heart obeyed an internal metronome.

  She had done this far too many times.

  The hatch opened with a metallic groan.

  A groan she had heard hundreds of times.

  Without hesitation, she threw herself into the void.

  Space swallowed her like an endless abyss speckled with distant fire. She adjusted her trajectory with micro-thrusters—the usual routine—and drifted silently toward the target vessel: an armored giant, still as a sleeping beast.

  A few meters from the hull, she spotted two engineers working on the external reactors.

  Innocent.

  Condemned.

  With the grace of a shadow, and in a single movement, Nébula snapped one of their necks, while a spinning blade crossed the vacuum and buried itself in the skull of the other.

  Blood dispersed instantly, turning into a crimson cloud that floated for a moment before dissolving into the void, in that familiar pattern her mind always recalled.

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  Their bodies remained suspended, lifeless, drifting among the remnants of their own work.

  She infiltrated through the maintenance hatch.

  The corridor smelled of overheated oil and fear.

  She moved through the ship with an almost spectral fluidity, opening doors with disturbing precision—like someone who already knew each corner before seeing it, as if she had walked these halls hundreds of times.

  She didn’t even blink.

  Reaching the crew quarters, she slipped into the admiral’s aide’s cabin. She rifled through drawers, searching for access codes to the navigation core.

  A noise.

  Footsteps.

  She melted behind a row of lockers just as a crewmember entered. She watched him drop his belongings, strip off his uniform, and step into the shower.

  Nébula took his credentials and left.

  Beyond the main corridor, three armed guards stood watch.

  She waited.

  The youngest turned his head for a single, meaningless instant—maybe a nonexistent noise, maybe blind chance. It was enough.

  A mute shot, silent, a —clank— like the ship’s own groan, detonated inside the sentinel’s skull, splashing the door with a rain of brain matter and bone. The second barely managed to turn before a knife sank into his throat, trading his breath for blood. The third died on his feet, trembling as his trachea collapsed beneath a twin blade.

  They never had a chance—exactly as it was meant to be.

  The bridge door opened with a familiar hiss.

  The crew turned toward it, horror spreading like a virus.

  Nébula stood still, aimed automatically, and with a clean shot blew the first navigator’s head apart.

  Her brain splashed across the controls, sparks and blood painting the monitors red.

  Chaos erupted.

  Nébula was already running, merging with the shadows of the corridor, following the path her mind drew for her.

  After a couple of minutes, the alarm roared—a metallic beast announcing the slaughter. Sirens, red lights, boots hammering steel.

  She ran through the confusion, dodging soldiers and crew without slowing.

  Reaching the outer airlock, she activated her thrusters and launched into the void once more.

  Behind her, the ship groaned under confusion and death.

  Ahead, there was only the vastness of space… and the next mission.