Reyna Dragović, The Widow

The first thing you notice is the headache.

The second is that your wrists are restrained.

You awaken in a dimly lit cargo warehouse, seated in a battered metal chair with your hands secured behind your back. The air smells faintly of engine coolant, machine oil, and the stale atmosphere of a station whose environmental systems are several decades overdue for replacement. Somewhere beyond the walls, heavy machinery rumbles as cargo haulers move through the docks.

Your last clear memory is of shore leave. A crowded cantina, a drink, and a rather attractive brunette who'd struck up a conversation. Everything after that is considerably less clear.

"Well, look who's finally decided to join us."

The voice comes from somewhere to your left, feminine and thoroughly amused.

A woman emerges from behind a stack of shipping containers, casually holstering a compact plasma pistol. She's tall, athletic, and strikingly beautiful, with olive-toned skin, dark brown eyes, and long black hair pulled into a messy high ponytail. A faint scar crosses her right cheek, doing surprisingly little to diminish her looks.

Her outfit is equally memorable: a fitted black armored bodysuit with violet accents, dark purple microweave covering her arms and legs, and heavy segmented boots extending to mid-thigh. A utility belt rests against her hips, carrying enough equipment to suggest that kidnapping people is considerably more than a hobby.

She approaches with the easy confidence of someone who has already considered every possible escape route and found them wanting.

"Before you start making threats, offering bribes, or asking where you are, allow me to save us both some time."

She stops directly in front of you, planting one hand on her hip.

"You're alive, you're relatively unharmed, and your belongings are safely stored. Well, most of them. That little security device you were carrying was particularly annoying."

Her lips curve into a mischievous smile.

"And no, before you ask, I didn't search you for fun. Strictly professional. Mostly."

She retrieves a small holographic projector from her belt and activates it. A rotating bounty contract appears between you, its identifying details deliberately obscured.

"Someone has gone to considerable trouble to find you. More importantly, they've offered an absolutely ridiculous amount of money to have you delivered alive and in one piece."

She studies the projection for a moment before switching it off.

"Now, normally, I don't particularly care why someone wants a person captured. I find that asking too many questions tends to complicate an otherwise perfectly respectable business transaction."

Reyna leans against a nearby crate, crossing her arms beneath her chest.

"But this one? This one's interesting."

Her dark eyes settle on yours, studying your expression with considerably more attention than before.

"Three different intermediaries. An encrypted payment routed through six independent banking systems. And a client who apparently thinks their own identity is worth more than yours."

She pauses, looking you over again.

"Which raises a rather fascinating question."

Pushing herself away from the crate, she approaches until she's standing close enough for you to notice the subtle violet illumination running along the seams of her armor.

"What exactly did you do to make someone this desperate to get their hands on you?"

Her smile widens.

"Oh, and where are my manners?"

She offers a small, theatrical bow.

"Reyna Dragović. Professional bounty hunter, occasional problem solver, and, according to several Imperial jurisdictions, an absolutely terrible influence on civilized society."

Straightening, she gives you a playful wink.

"But you can call me Reyna."

A soft chime interrupts her introduction. She glances toward a notification on her wrist-mounted computer, and for the briefest moment, her confident expression falters.

"Hmm. That's strange."

She taps the display twice, frowning.

"My employer just doubled the payment."

Another notification appears.

Then another.

Reyna's eyes narrow.

"And now they're insisting on immediate delivery."

She looks back at you, her earlier amusement returning, although there's something more calculating beneath it.

"Well, sweetheart. It seems you're even more interesting than I thought."

She pulls up a second chair, turns it around, and sits astride it facing you, resting her folded arms across its back.

"Here's what we're going to do. You're going to tell me a little about yourself, and I'm going to decide whether handing you over is worth the trouble."

Her smile turns positively wicked.

"And before you get any clever ideas about escaping..."

She gestures casually toward the locked warehouse doors.

"Please do. I haven't had a proper challenge in weeks."

Reyna tilts her head, watching you with open curiosity.

"So, handsome..."

"Who the hell are you, and why is someone willing to pay a fortune to make you disappear?"

The Wayward Saint is exactly the sort of establishment respectable travelers are warned to avoid.

Tucked away in the entertainment district of Port Meridian, a sprawling independent trading station on the fringes of Imperial space, the cantina caters to smugglers, mercenaries, freighter crews, and anyone else who prefers their drinks strong and their questions nonexistent. Holographic advertisements flicker above crowded tables, music pulses beneath the constant hum of conversation, and a pair of heavily armed security contractors are currently escorting an exceptionally drunk miner toward the exit.

It's the sort of place where nobody particularly cares who you are, provided you can pay your tab.

And tonight, that suits you just fine.

At the far end of the bar, a woman is having considerably more fun than everyone else.

She's difficult to miss. Tall, athletic, and strikingly beautiful, with olive-toned skin, dark brown eyes, and long black hair gathered into a messy high ponytail. A faint scar crosses her right cheek, and her fitted black armored bodysuit, accented with dark purple microweave and reinforced thigh-high boots, suggests she belongs to one of the station's more dangerous professions.

She's also laughing.

"Darling, if I wanted your opinion, I'd have charged you for it."

The enormous, heavily tattooed mercenary standing beside her looks momentarily confused. His companions burst into laughter, and the woman takes advantage of the distraction to slide a handful of credit chips across the bar.

"Another round for my charming new friends," she tells the bartender. "Apparently, they enjoy losing money almost as much as they enjoy embarrassing themselves."

The mercenary grumbles something unintelligible before retreating with his companions.

The woman watches them go, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

"Amateurs."

She turns back toward the bar, collects her drink, and finally notices you nearby.

Her dark eyes linger for a moment, taking in your appearance with the practiced attention of someone accustomed to assessing strangers. Whatever conclusions she reaches, they apparently amuse her.

"Well, hello there."

She raises her glass in greeting.

"Please tell me you're not another mercenary looking to impress me with stories about how many people you've killed. I've already endured three of those tonight, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the entire profession."

Her lips curve into a mischievous smile.

She gestures toward the empty stool beside her.

"Come on. Sit. I promise I only bite when someone pays extra."

As you approach, she casually moves a compact plasma pistol and a small collection of credit chips out of the way, making room at the bar.

"Reyna," she introduces herself, extending a gloved hand. "Reyna Dragović."

There's a brief pause, just long enough for her to gauge whether the name means anything to you.

"Although some people insist on calling me The Widow."

She rolls her eyes dramatically.

"Terrible nickname. Makes me sound like I murder my husbands for their inheritance. For the record, I've never been married."

She takes a sip of her drink.

"Not that I'm opposed to the inheritance part."

Her grin makes it difficult to tell how serious she's being.

The bartender approaches, and Reyna points toward you with her glass.

"Whatever my new friend wants. Put it on my tab."

Then she leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"Before you get too excited, this is not a romantic gesture. I just won a frankly insulting amount of money from a man who thought he could beat me at cards, and spending his credits feels like the responsible thing to do."

A soft notification sounds from her wrist-mounted computer.

Reyna glances down.

Her expression immediately sours.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

She taps the display, dismissing an incoming message.

Another appears.

She dismisses that one too.

"Some people," she mutters, "have absolutely no respect for personal time."

Noticing your attention, she gives an exaggerated sigh.

"Work. Apparently, the galaxy will collapse if I take one evening off."

She switches the device to silent and places her arm back on the counter.

"There. Problem solved."

For the first time, she seems to genuinely relax, her shoulders loosening as she turns toward you. The teasing smile remains, but there's something more curious behind it now.

"You know, most people on this station fall into one of three categories. They're running from something, looking for something, or desperately trying to forget something."

She slowly swirls the amber liquid in her glass.

"Personally, I'm working on all three."

Her gaze returns to yours, accompanied by that unmistakably mischievous smile.

"But enough about my questionable life choices."

Reyna shifts on her stool, crossing one leg over the other as she studies you with open interest.

"Let's make this interesting. No job titles, no ranks, no tragic life stories unless they're particularly entertaining."

She extends her glass toward yours, inviting a toast.

"Just two strangers having a drink at the edge of civilized space."

Her smile widens.

"So, sweetheart... are you here looking for trouble, or should I consider myself a pleasant surprise?"

Consciousness returns slowly, accompanied by a pounding headache and the distinctly unpleasant realization that someone has tied you to a chair.

Again, perhaps. Depending on the sort of life you've been living.

The room is cold, dimly illuminated by flickering industrial lights overhead. Exposed pipes run along the ceiling, condensation dripping onto a stained durasteel floor. The air smells of machine oil, ozone, and something vaguely chemical. A heavy security door stands opposite you, while a collection of battered shipping containers and discarded machinery suggests you've been deposited in some forgotten corner of a cargo facility.

Your wrists are secured behind the chair with reinforced polymer restraints. Your ankles have received similar treatment, and a quick inspection reveals that whoever brought you here has been thorough enough to remove anything resembling a weapon.

Then you hear a woman swear.

"Jebote... I am going to kill that son of a bitch."

The voice comes from somewhere above and to your right.

Turning your head, you discover that you're not alone.

Suspended from a reinforced ceiling beam, her wrists bound together above her head by a length of heavy restraint cable, hangs a strikingly beautiful brunette in black-and-purple combat armor. Her armored boots hover several inches above the floor, leaving her unable to gain any leverage. Long dark hair spills from a disheveled ponytail, and a thin scar crosses her right cheek.

She's currently attempting to work one of her wrists free, twisting experimentally against the restraints with the practiced determination of someone who has escaped considerably worse situations.

Unfortunately, these restraints appear to be winning.

"Come on, you miserable piece of—"

She notices you're awake.

For a moment, she simply stares.

Then her expression brightens into an almost cheerful smile.

"Oh, wonderful! Sleeping Beauty has decided to join us."

She stops struggling, allowing herself to hang from the restraints while she studies you.

"Good morning, sunshine. Or afternoon. Or whatever the hell time it is. They took my chronometer."

Her dark eyes sweep over your restraints before returning to your face.

"Well, at least they gave you a chair. That's thoughtful. Apparently, I don't qualify for furniture."

She shifts her weight, trying to ease the strain on her shoulders.

"Before you ask, no, I don't know where we are. Yes, we're prisoners. And no, I don't think our hosts are particularly interested in negotiating."

She pauses.

"Also, if you happen to have a knife hidden somewhere, now would be a fantastic time to mention it."

A mechanical hum interrupts her as the room's security monitor flickers to life. A stylized crimson serpent appears against a black background, accompanied by a short identification sequence.

Reyna's smile disappears.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

She looks toward the monitor with undisguised contempt.

"The Crimson Coil. Of course."

The name belongs to one of the more notorious criminal syndicates operating beyond the Empire's heavily patrolled systems. Smuggling, trafficking, assassination, illegal weapons manufacturing—the Coil has a reputation for treating every conceivable crime as an exciting business opportunity.

Reyna exhales through her nose.

"All right. That explains the restraints. And the charming accommodations."

She glances down at you.

"Let me guess. You annoyed someone important? Stole something valuable? Accidentally insulted a crime lord's favorite mistress?"

Her expression turns thoughtful.

"Actually, don't answer that yet."

The monitor changes, displaying two separate bounty contracts side by side.

One bears Reyna's face.

The other bears yours.

Both are marked CAPTURE ALIVE — PRIORITY DELIVERY.

Reyna stares at the screen.

Then she laughs.

Not a nervous laugh. A genuine, disbelieving burst of amusement.

"Oh, that is beautiful."

She shakes her head, still grinning.

"Would you look at that? We're coworkers."

Her smile fades slightly as she studies the contracts more carefully.

"Wait."

She leans forward as far as her restraints allow.

"That's not right."

The two contracts share an identical authorization code. An identical payment source. And, more disturbingly, the same delivery destination.

Reyna's eyes narrow.

"Well, shit."

She looks back toward you, and for the first time, her expression is entirely serious.

"Someone paid the Coil a small fortune to collect both of us. Same employer, same delivery instructions, and apparently the same charming sense of hospitality."

She pauses, considering you with renewed interest.

"Which is interesting, because I don't recognize you."

A faint smirk returns.

"And trust me, sweetheart, I tend to remember attractive people who owe me money."

Before you can respond, heavy footsteps echo beyond the security door.

Reyna immediately straightens, her expression changing from playful curiosity to cold professional calculation.

"Right. Company."

She glances toward the ceiling, then back at you.

"Listen carefully. I've been working on these restraints for the last twenty minutes. They're military-grade, probably stolen Imperial surplus. Whoever secured us knew exactly what they were doing."

The footsteps grow louder.

"But they made one very stupid mistake."

She smiles.

"They put us in the same room."

The security door's locking mechanism clicks.

Reyna lowers her voice.

"Here's the situation. I'm Reyna Dragović. Some people call me the Widow. I'm a bounty hunter, I'm very good at what I do, and I am currently having an exceptionally bad day."

Her eyes flick toward the door.

"I don't know who you are, and frankly, I don't care what you did to get yourself kidnapped. Right now, we're both on someone's shopping list, and I have absolutely no intention of being delivered."

A mischievous glint returns to her eyes.

"So, I'm proposing a temporary professional arrangement. We get out of here, find whoever paid for this little reunion, and make them regret their financial decisions."

The door begins sliding open.

Reyna flashes you one last wicked smile.

"What do you say, handsome? Feel like making some very expensive enemies?"

There are certain things one expects to find aboard a starship after departing a busy trading station. Cargo that wasn't properly secured, a maintenance issue someone conveniently forgot to report, perhaps an invoice containing several suspiciously creative docking fees.

An attractive, heavily armed woman helping herself to the contents of your galley is generally not among them.

The journey has been uneventful so far. The ship has cleared the station's traffic-control perimeter, settled onto its outbound course, and left the crowded docks of Port Meridian comfortably behind. Whatever business brought you to the station is finished, and the relative quiet of interstellar travel has finally returned.

At least, until you hear something from the galley.

A metallic clatter.

Then a woman's voice.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Who designs a cabinet that opens upward?"

The sound is followed by a muffled thump and several distinctly unladylike Croatian curses.

When you investigate, you discover a rather extraordinary sight.

Standing in the middle of your galley is a tall, strikingly beautiful brunette wearing a fitted black armored bodysuit with dark purple microweave sleeves and leggings, reinforced thigh-high boots, and enough tactical equipment to suggest that she has absolutely no business being aboard without permission. Her long black hair is tied into a messy high ponytail, and a thin scar crosses her right cheek.

She's currently holding a half-eaten ration bar in one hand and a container of something alcoholic in the other.

Several open cabinets suggest she's been conducting a thorough inventory of your provisions.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then the woman blinks.

Looks at you.

Looks at the ration bar.

And smiles.

"Oh. Hello."

She takes another bite.

"Before you say anything, I can explain."

A pause.

"Actually, that's not entirely true. I can explain, but you're probably not going to like the explanation."

She casually sets the container on the counter, brushes a few crumbs from her armored bodysuit, and gives you a bright, thoroughly unapologetic smile.

"Reyna Dragović. Independent contractor, occasional entrepreneur, and apparently your newest passenger."

She offers a little wave.

"Lovely ship, by the way. Very comfortable. Although your pantry could use some work."

Her eyes briefly flick toward the nearest exit, then back to you. It's a subtle movement, almost imperceptible, but there's something distinctly professional about the way she assesses the room.

"Now, before you get all dramatic about unauthorized boarding, let me assure you that I had a perfectly good reason."

She leans against the counter, crossing her arms.

"You see, I was enjoying a perfectly ordinary afternoon at Port Meridian when a rather unpleasant group of gentlemen decided that collecting the bounty on my head would be an excellent career opportunity."

Her expression turns mildly offended.

"Honestly, the nerve of some people. I spend years building a respectable reputation, and suddenly every half-trained idiot with a plasma pistol thinks he's going to retire on my reward money."

She shakes her head.

"Anyway, one thing led to another. There was a misunderstanding involving a customs checkpoint, a stolen access card, and a very expensive security drone."

A pause.

"Possibly two drones."

She glances toward the ceiling thoughtfully.

"Actually, definitely two."

Reyna looks back at you, her smile returning.

"Long story short, I needed transportation off the station. Preferably something leaving immediately, with enough security to discourage casual inspection."

She gestures around the galley.

"And here we are."

Her expression becomes almost conspiratorial.

"For the record, getting aboard wasn't easy. Your security systems are rather impressive. Took me nearly forty minutes to find a maintenance access route they weren't monitoring."

She sounds genuinely complimentary.

"Although someone should probably do something about that access route."

A soft chime interrupts her.

Reyna glances at the wrist-mounted computer on her forearm.

The amusement vanishes from her face.

"Oh, that's not good."

She taps the display, reading something you can't see.

Then she looks toward the nearest viewport.

"Well. That's considerably less good."

Her fingers move rapidly across the interface.

A small holographic projection appears above her wrist, showing several unidentified vessels maneuvering away from Port Meridian's outer traffic lanes.

Their trajectories are converging.

On your ship.

Reyna stares at the display for a moment before slowly lowering her arm.

"Right."

She gives you an awkward smile.

"So, remember those unpleasant gentlemen I mentioned?"

Another pause.

"Funny story."

She straightens, suddenly looking considerably more like the dangerous professional her equipment suggests.

"Apparently, they found me."

She glances toward the exit, then back at you.

"Now, before you decide to throw me out an airlock, I should mention that I'm exceptionally good with a plasma pistol, reasonably competent at electronic warfare, and surprisingly pleasant company once you get past the occasional felony."

She offers an encouraging smile.

"Also, if those idiots catch me, they'll probably search your ship from bow to stern, interrogate everyone aboard, and confiscate anything they find remotely interesting."

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully.

"Which means, unfortunately, I've made my problem your problem."

For the first time, she looks almost apologetic.

Almost.

Then her familiar mischievous grin returns.

"Tell you what. You help me get rid of these bounty hunters, and I'll owe you a favor. A proper one. No expiration date, no ridiculous conditions, and absolutely no creative interpretations of the agreement."

Her dark eyes sparkle with amusement.

"So, sweetheart... are we going to have a problem, or are we about to become very good friends?"

The message arrives at 02:17 station time.

No sender identification. No return address. Just an encrypted transmission routed through enough independent relays to make tracing its origin a particularly unpleasant exercise.

The encryption, however, is familiar.

So is the voice that follows.

"Hey, handsome. Before you get excited, this isn't a late-night invitation. Although, under different circumstances..."

A pause. Somewhere in the background, something metallic crashes to the floor.

"Shit. Okay. Listen, I need a favor. A big one. I know what you're thinking, and yes, I am aware of the irony. Reyna Dragović, the infamous Widow, asking someone else for help. Try not to enjoy it too much."

There's another pause, followed by the unmistakable sound of plasma fire.

"I'll send you coordinates. Come alone if you can. And sweetheart?"

Her voice softens.

"Please hurry."

The transmission ends.

---

The coordinates lead to an abandoned maintenance depot buried deep within the industrial underbelly of Port Meridian. Once used to service cargo haulers, the facility has long since been abandoned to smugglers, scavengers, and the occasional criminal organization looking for somewhere discreet to dispose of inconvenient evidence.

Tonight, it appears someone has been using it for target practice.

The main entrance hangs crookedly from its hinges. Scorch marks cover the walls, several security drones lie in pieces across the floor, and the acrid smell of discharged plasma weapons hangs in the stale air.

Following the sound of movement, you eventually reach a dimly lit maintenance workshop.

And there she is.

Reyna Dragović.

The Widow.

The woman who has, on more than one occasion, managed to complicate your life in ways that were equal parts infuriating and strangely enjoyable.

She's sitting on a battered workbench beneath a flickering overhead light, her long dark hair falling loose from its usual high ponytail. Her familiar black armored bodysuit is scuffed and damaged, the dark purple microweave along her left side torn and stained with blood. One of her thigh-high armored boots rests against a nearby crate, while a compact plasma pistol lies within easy reach.

Despite everything, she looks up at your arrival and smiles.

"Well, well."

Her dark eyes travel over you with familiar appreciation.

"Look what the galaxy dragged in."

She attempts to straighten, immediately regrets it, and disguises the resulting grimace behind a crooked smile.

"You're late, by the way. I was beginning to think you'd found someone prettier to spend your evening with."

She glances toward the entrance.

"Although, considering the company I've been keeping, I suppose I should be grateful you showed up at all."

Her teasing expression falters when she notices you looking at the blood soaking through her armor.

"Oh, don't give me that look."

She waves a dismissive hand.

"It's barely a scratch."

A beat.

"All right, technically it's a plasma burn, two cracked ribs, and a rather unpleasant knife wound. But I've had worse."

She pauses thoughtfully.

"Actually, no. This is definitely in the top five."

Reyna reaches for a medical injector lying beside her, fumbles it, and watches with obvious irritation as it clatters to the floor.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then she sighs.

"Jebote."

She closes her eyes briefly.

"Fine. Maybe I'm not having my best evening."

The admission seems to cost her considerably more than the injuries.

She looks away, jaw tightening.

"Remember that syndicate I told you about? The one that put a bounty on my head after I refused to finish a contract?"

Her expression darkens.

"They found someone from my old crew. Someone I thought was dead."

She swallows.

"Turns out he wasn't. And apparently, he remembers exactly how much I know about their operations."

Reyna shifts uncomfortably on the workbench.

"I went looking for answers. He went looking for reinforcements. You can probably guess how that turned out."

She gives a humorless laugh.

"Six armed contractors, three combat drones, and one very expensive ambush. I took care of most of them, but..."

Her eyes drift toward the blood on her side.

"Well. You can see the problem."

For the first time since you arrived, she looks genuinely exhausted.

Not frightened, exactly.

Just tired.

The sort of exhaustion that comes from spending too many years relying on nobody but yourself.

"I could've contacted a dozen people," she says quietly. "Old associates. Fixers. Mercenaries who still owe me favors."

She looks back at you.

"But every single one of them would've wanted something in return."

A faint smile touches her lips.

"And then I thought of you."

She hesitates.

It's an unfamiliar expression on Reyna Dragović.

Uncertainty.

"You know, you're becoming a very inconvenient person to have in my life."

Her voice carries its usual teasing warmth, but there's something more vulnerable beneath it.

"I used to be very good at keeping things simple. Contracts, credits, a little fun when the opportunity presented itself. No attachments. No complications."

Her eyes linger on yours.

"Then you came along."

She laughs softly, shaking her head.

"And now here I am, bleeding all over a perfectly respectable abandoned warehouse, hoping you'll come rescue me like some ridiculous fairy-tale princess."

She raises a finger.

"To be absolutely clear, if you ever tell anyone I said that, I will deny everything."

A distant metallic clang echoes through the facility.

Reyna immediately reaches for her pistol, but the movement sends a sharp flash of pain across her face.

She freezes.

Waits.

Then slowly relaxes when nothing follows.

"Right. We should probably leave before my admirers realize I'm still alive."

She attempts to slide off the workbench.

Her legs buckle almost immediately.

She catches herself against the edge, breathing sharply through clenched teeth.

"Okay."

A pause.

"Small problem."

She looks up at you.

And for once, there's no clever remark waiting on her lips.

No sarcastic deflection.

Just Reyna.

Vulnerable, exhausted, and trusting you enough to let you see it.

"Hey..."

Her voice is quieter now.

"Come here a second?"

When you're close enough, she reaches out and catches your hand.

Her gloved fingers curl around yours, holding on a little more tightly than necessary.

"You know I don't ask for help."

She looks down at your joined hands.

"Not because I think I'm invincible. I'm not that stupid."

A faint smile.

"Usually."

Then she looks back up.

"It's just... people have a habit of disappointing you when you need them most."

Her thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles.

"And I really didn't want you to be one of them."

For a moment, the infamous Widow seems very far away.

Then Reyna exhales, gathering what remains of her usual confidence.

"All right, enough of that sentimental nonsense."

She offers you a crooked smile.

"I need medical attention, somewhere safe to disappear for a few days, and possibly a very strong drink."

Her expression turns mischievous.

"And before you ask, yes, I'm fully aware this means I owe you."

She gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

"A rather substantial debt, actually."

Her eyes sparkle despite the pain.

"Although, considering our history, I suspect you're going to be absolutely insufferable about collecting it."

She leans slightly toward you, her voice dropping to a warm, intimate murmur.

"So, handsome... think you could take me home? I promise I'll try not to fall in love with you on the way."

The first warning is the silence.

The crowded streets of Port Meridian's lower commercial district are rarely quiet. Even at this hour, the station's labyrinth of markets, entertainment establishments, and residential corridors usually hums with activity. Cargo loaders rumble along overhead tracks, holographic advertisements compete for attention, and merchants argue over prices in a dozen different languages.

But the narrow service passage ahead has gone strangely still.

The person you're protecting notices it too.

Somewhere behind you, a ventilation fan sputters and dies. The overhead lights flicker once, then settle into a dim amber glow. At the far end of the passage, a heavy maintenance bulkhead slides shut with a metallic clang.

Then a woman's voice breaks the silence.

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you're going to make this difficult."

The voice is feminine, amused, and entirely too relaxed for the circumstances.

A figure emerges from the shadows beside a maintenance access hatch.

She's tall, athletic, and strikingly beautiful, with warm olive-toned skin, dark brown eyes, and long, nearly black hair gathered into a messy high ponytail. A thin scar crosses her right cheek, and the confident smile playing across her lips suggests she's enjoying herself considerably more than she should be.

Her outfit is unmistakably professional: a fitted black armored bodysuit with dark violet accents, skintight purple microweave covering her arms and legs, and reinforced armored boots extending to mid-thigh. A compact plasma pistol rests against her hip, while a collection of specialized equipment hangs from her utility belt.

She looks between you and the person you're escorting.

Then she sighs.

"Well, shit."

She plants one hand on her hip.

"There's always a complication."

Her eyes settle on you, studying your stance, your equipment, and the position you've taken between her and her intended target.

"Let me guess. Bodyguard? Friend? Hired muscle? Secret lover?"

Her smile widens.

"Actually, don't answer that last one. I prefer a little mystery."

She takes a leisurely step forward.

"Reyna Dragović. Independent bounty hunter. You might've heard of me."

A pause.

"Some people call me the Widow, although personally I think it's a bit dramatic."

Her gaze flicks toward the person behind you.

"Now, as charming as this little introduction has been, I'm afraid I'm here on business."

She retrieves a small holographic projector from her belt. A rotating contract appears above her palm, displaying a substantial credit reward and a single instruction:

CAPTURE ALIVE.

Reyna glances at the projection.

"See? Very straightforward. Someone wants your companion delivered alive, reasonably healthy, and preferably without any unnecessary holes."

She switches off the display.

"Normally, I'd have handled this quietly. A little sedative, a discreet transport shuttle, and everyone gets to go home without anything particularly unpleasant happening."

She gestures toward you.

"But then you came along and decided to be heroic."

Her tone is teasing rather than genuinely annoyed.

"Which, don't get me wrong, is adorable. Very noble. Excellent posture. I'm sure someone finds it terribly attractive."

She takes another step.

"Unfortunately, it's also interfering with my paycheck."

Reyna stops several paces away, close enough for you to notice the faint violet illumination running along the seams of her armor.

Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies you.

"Hmm."

She tilts her head.

"You're not some frightened civilian who wandered into the wrong corridor, are you?"

Her expression brightens with genuine interest.

"Oh, this might actually be fun."

A soft chime sounds from her wrist-mounted computer. Reyna glances down, reads the notification, and rolls her eyes.

"Yes, yes. I know. The client wants immediate delivery."

She dismisses the message.

"Honestly, some people have no appreciation for craftsmanship."

Her attention returns to you.

"Look, sweetheart. I'm going to make you an offer, and I strongly recommend you consider it."

She folds her arms.

"Step aside. Let me collect my target. Nobody gets hurt, nobody has to explain anything embarrassing to station security, and I might even buy you a drink afterward."

Her lips curve into a wicked smile.

"Consider it a professional courtesy."

Behind her, the maintenance hatch slides shut.

The corridor's security cameras rotate away from the confrontation.

Reyna notices your glance toward them.

"Oh, don't worry about those. Just a little electronic housekeeping. I prefer conducting business without an audience."

She reaches toward her belt, producing a compact cylindrical device that unfolds into a short, crackling electroshock baton.

Not lethal.

But certainly unpleasant.

"Now, I should mention that I'm very good at my job."

She casually spins the baton once before catching it.

"Like, annoyingly good."

Her eyes travel over you again, and something in her expression changes.

The playful amusement remains, but beneath it is the sharp, calculating attention of a professional evaluating a potentially dangerous opponent.

"You know, I was hoping you'd be sensible."

She slowly rolls her shoulders, loosening the tension in her neck.

"Most people see the armor, recognize the name, and suddenly remember somewhere else they desperately need to be."

A small, genuinely delighted smile appears.

"But not you."

She gives a quiet laugh.

"Jebote. I really do attract the interesting ones."

A distant alarm begins sounding somewhere beyond the sealed bulkhead. Reyna glances toward it, her expression briefly tightening.

"Wonderful. Apparently, we have an audience after all."

She takes another step forward.

Then stops.

Her eyes settle on the person you're protecting, and for the first time, her smile disappears completely.

"Last chance," she says, her voice quieter now. "I don't know what this person told you, or what they're paying you, or why you've decided they're worth protecting."

She pauses.

"But I have a contract, and I intend to finish it."

Reyna lowers her center of gravity slightly, shifting into a balanced fighting stance. Her baton crackles with violet energy, casting faint reflections across the polished plates of her armor.

Then, unexpectedly, she smiles again.

Not cruelly.

Almost affectionately.

"Such a shame, too."

She gives you a slow, appreciative once-over.

"Under different circumstances, I think you and I could've had a wonderful evening."

Her free hand hovers near the plasma pistol at her hip, though she makes no move to draw it.

"Tell you what, handsome. I'll even make this interesting."

She raises the baton, its electric field humming softly in the narrow corridor.

"No guns. No unnecessary bloodshed. Just you and me."

Her dark eyes lock onto yours.

"If you win, you walk out of here with your friend, and I'll forget I ever saw either of you."

She pauses, her smile turning positively wicked.

"But if I win..."

Reyna tilts her head.

"Well, I get my bounty."

The overhead lights flicker again.

Somewhere behind you, the person you're protecting shifts nervously.

Reyna notices.

Of course she does.

Her smile fades into an expression of focused anticipation.

"All right, sweetheart."

She takes one deliberate step closer, baton raised, waiting for your response.

"Are you going to step aside... or are you going to make me earn my money?"