Ethan awoke without the help of alarms. The silence around him was absolute, the kind only luxury insulation could buy. No hum of systems, no murmurs from the corridor outside. Just the stillness of early morning in the Spire View Hotel. For a moment, he lay there, eyes half-closed, letting the comfort of the memory foam mattress cradle his back a little longer.
He sat up slowly, the crisp white sheets sliding off his chest. The air was just cool enough to remind him he wasn't in a dream. Ethan glanced toward the ceiling's built-in luminescence, simulating a gentle pre-dawn glow. His eyes tracked the subtle shifts in tone from slate gray to soft amber as Ashen Prime's artificial sunrise played out through the wall-sized window.
No urgency. No alerts from Iris.. It was yet another excellent and uncomplicated morning.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there, spine straightening. For a few seconds, he simply breathed, grounding himself in the moment. His callused fingers brushed against the smooth edge of the nightstand, tracing the outlines of his folded datapad. Then, like a subtle click of gears falling back into place, Ethan stood and padded barefoot across the plush carpet toward the suite's bathroom.
The cold shower was deliberate. As he stepped beneath the blast of icy water, his body tensed, muscles tightening against the sting. It wasn't pain, it was clarity. Each droplet seemed to peel away the indulgence of the past few days. The luxury had been real, but now it was time to shake it off, to return to who he was beyond the silk and comfort.
He dried off quickly, ignoring the warming towels and steam aromatics. Those were for tourists, for politicians. Not for a captain heading back to his ship.
In a few practiced motions, Ethan dressed in his normal attire: a slate-gray jacket with reinforced seams, boots worn but clean, and a dark underlayer with micro-armor fibers weaved through it. Everything fit him like a second skin. The look of a mercenary roaming the wilds of Federation space, not basking in the top-floor suite of a governor's pet hotel.
He moved to the low, obsidian-glass table near the panoramic window. Breakfast had arrived earlier, delivered by an autonomous service drone, then sealed beneath a heat-retaining stasis dome. As the cover hissed open with a faint pulse of blue light, tendrils of savory vapor escaped into the air. A tri-fold of protein-rich Elaran eggs, genetically patterned into perfect symmetry, rested beside cubes of iridescent Myrrak fruit, each one shifting subtly in hue, refracting ambient light like miniature prisms. A translucent carafe held steaming black caf, bitter, grounding, and dense with wake-stimulants favored by long-range pilots.
Ethan ate slowly, methodically. Beyond the window, the city moved like a machine dreaming of quiet.
The artificial dawn painted the docking arms in gold. Ships blinked with running lights, and high above them all, the dome's light-reflective shield glimmered faintly. For a station built in the far reaches of the Ashen Sector, it was an impressive illusion of peace.
He took a final sip from his cup, then wiped his mouth and stood. There was no lingering here.
Ethan slipped the datapad into his jacket's inner pocket and gave the room one last glance. Impeccable. Exactly as it had been when he arrived, no trace left behind. He liked it that way. Silent departures, clean slates.
He left the suite without a word. The lift ride down was smooth and mirrored, offering him brief flashes of himself. Short dark hair, stern jawline, faint lines at the corners of his calm eyes, a faint shadow of stubble. No longer the guest. The mission man again.
In the lobby, a four-armed Vennari concierge greeted him with a respectful incline of the upper-right head. Ethan returned the gesture with a subtle nod, saying nothing. They didn't need words. Vennari weren't chatty to begin with, and he had no desire for parting pleasantries.
He crossed the polished marble floor, past fountains that trickled endlessly beside holographic installations of Ashen Prime's early construction. The air was scented with manufactured jasmine and the soft chime of classical orchestration played on a loop. For the first time, he noticed how disconnected it all was. Ashen Prime's curated luxury might impress a trader baron or a mid-tier ambassador but to him, it was a lull. A pause. A brief illusion before the next reality check.
Still, he didn't deny it had been… pleasant.
As he walked through the skybridge leading to the transport hub, the contrast became clearer. The walls of the bridge were transparent, beyond them, the curve of the station shimmered, lit by thousands of indirect fixtures. Beneath, the city-structure spiraled away: opulent dining circles, elevated railways, private hangars for the elite. People strolled in coordinated colorways, whispering into augmented comm-links and sipping synthetic cocktails.
Ethan moved with quiet purpose, unaffected by the glances of the few pedestrians he passed.
At the end of the corridor, his private transport pod waited. Sleek, silver-lined, with a soft pulse from its identification lock. He tapped his clearance badge against the reader. A small chime answered him, and the doors opened.
Inside, the cabin was soundless. The seat adjusted to his posture automatically, and the pod pulled away with a smoothness that barely registered. They passed through magnetic tracks, cutting past the middle rings of Ashen Prime, leaving behind the center of influence and wealth.
Out here, the infrastructure was still pristine, but the glamour faded. Utility replaced opulence. Maintenance drones moved in synchronized bursts. Docking clamps reset. A freighter recharged its mass core in a humming station to the left. A small group of workers in amber vests debriefed near an emergency chamber.
Ethan's eyes stayed ahead.
Outside the viewport, the levels of Ashen Prime passed in silence. The pod moved fast, bypassing all traffic controls thanks to his clearance. Blue-white lights marked the outline of loading arms and the crawl of repair bots across outer plating.
Then he saw it.
The Obsidian Wraith.
His ship rested in a private dock, shielded from view by angular partitions. Black matte plating, seamless curves, and barely visible trim lines. No ornate flags. No flashy logos. A predator among swans.
She looked as he left her. And even now, something inside him tugged at the sight of her.
Ethan stepped out of the transport pod onto the access platform. His boots clicked faintly on the metal ramp, the air here just a touch cooler. He took a few steps forward and stopped.
The Wraith was silent.
But alive.
A breath escaped him, not fatigue, not tension. Something like peace.
"Back home," he murmured.