Chapter 17

Blackpoint Station hung at the edge of Orion’s Thumb like a tumor, a lawless node too valuable to erase and too corrupt to claim. The main concourse looked grown, not built—layers of old hulls and habitation tubes welded into a living maze, every surface slashed with garish signage and the dirty pink glow of busted neon. Even at a distance, you could smell the station: old fuel, hot metal, a tang of bodies too close and too desperate.

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