Fast ships. Clean kills. Every undock a promise of danger. I flew light and hit hard, trusting my instincts and my scanners to keep me alive. Most of the time, they did.
Until they didn’t.
Low-sec. Quiet system. Too quiet. I found a lone cruiser and warped in without thinking. The trap was already set. Scram. Web. More ships dropping cloak around me. I burned hard, overloaded everything—but it was over before it began.
My ship broke first.
Then my pod.
They didn’t rush it. They held me there, floating in the wreckage, long enough to understand I’d lost. Then they cracked it open.
Waking in a fresh clone should’ve been routine. It wasn’t.
Something stayed behind in that pod.
I tried to go back. Same ships, same hunts. But hesitation crept in, and in this life, that’s enough to get you killed. So I stopped.
Sold the ships. Walked away.
Now I mine.
High-sec. Quiet belts. No surprises. Asteroids don’t lie—they give you exactly what they are. No traps. No games.
Just work.
Sometimes I still feel it. The pull to fly something fast and dangerous again. But I remember the silence before the pod cracked—