Thought the stars would feel different.
Back on the farm, I used to stare up at the night dome and picture ships gliding past Saturn's rings like fish under ice. I figured if I ever made it off Earth, things would start to make sense. That the galaxy had a place for a guy like me hardworking, honest, maybe a little slow with tech, but eager.
Turns out, Star City doesn't run on eagerness.
It runs on debt, silence, and the grind of a thousand rusting loaders dropping crates nobody claims. And I'm the idiot under one of them.
"Kai, move your ass! That crate's marked Kurova!" someone yells.
I flinch. That name's not one you want shouted in public—especially not in Tier 3, where walls have ears and bullets don't ask questions. I slap the override pad, let the crate slam down wherever it wants. My hands still sting from the coolant leak earlier. My boots squelch in it. Still better than what I saw yesterday.
A guy—Earthborn, like me—got caught skimming rations. They didn't even pretend it was an accident. Just dumped him in the shaft between Tier 3 and 4. No one looked twice. No one ever does.
I wipe sweat off my forehead and glance up through the service vent. Somewhere above all this noise, Tier 1 folks are sipping starlight wine, talking politics, pretending this city isn't held up by grease, lies, and the bodies of guys like me.
I shouldn't have come here. But there's no going back.
Not after what I left behind. Not with my sister still stuck planetside, working double shifts in the algae vats to cover her oxygen tax. I promised her I'd make it. That I'd send creds back. That I'd matter.
So I grab the next crate.
And keep moving.