The rescue ship under Captain Manuel’s command and Ragnar’s vessel race into the inferno of the star like two arrows loosed in madness. The sunlight pulses, and it feels like they are plunging straight into a fiery maw.

  A piercing alarm sounds—metallic, like the scream of the machine itself. The inquisitor ship’s defense system begins to choke from the heat. Interference crackles, and a trembling, nearly desperate voice comes over internal comms:

  — Captain Ragnar, if we don’t break off the pursuit—we’ll burn! The systems are maxed out!

  Ragnar, feeling a surge of fury, slams his fist into the armrest of his chair. That same force guiding his will activates the tactile display, which flashes a warning. His face turns bright red with rage and despair.

  — Damn it! — he roars, fists clenched. — They got away… Abort pursuit! Set course—back to base!

  Aboard the rescue ship, calm reigns. The upgraded hull, like a shield, effectively absorbs the sun’s destructive radiation. Pietro’s eyes gleam as he watches the navigation screen, tracking the widening gap between them and their pursuers.

  — We’re pulling away! — he shouts, throwing his arms up like a victor in the arena. — Captain, they’re breaking off! We did it!

  Manuel doesn’t rush to respond. His gaze is fixed on the glowing, hellish disc ahead. He knows: survival was only a matter of time. His entire life—where outcomes were often decided in the final moment—has built toward this instant of inevitability.

  — Good, — he says softly, his voice like warmth on the surface of dark water. — Changing course. We’re going home. Before we’re burned down to a cloud of atoms.

  His words don’t sound like relief, but rather a deep, restrained acknowledgment of the danger they’ve just passed. They are not saved. They’ve merely escaped the deadliest teeth of this battle.

  Base on Mercury

  The inquisitors return to Mercury, carrying the weight of failure. Ragnar’s ship, scarred with signs of overheating, slowly descends onto the landing pad near the corporation’s main building. It looks like a beast—wounded and battered, but still alive.

  Ragnar strides toward the central entrance, accompanied by a silent aide. His walk betrays irritation, but his face remains stone. He moves with purpose, and tension radiates from him like that of a lion before the pounce. The corridors meet them with the hum of ventilation and the chill of marble walls—endless, lifeless. They pass subdued security and stop at the reception area.

  Ivor’s secretary—with a perfect hairstyle and a face carved from wax—wordlessly opens the hall doors.

  Inside, a spectacle worthy of any theater unfolds: virtual ocean waves crash against the walls, rising and roaring, looming over the guests. But Ragnar doesn’t flinch. He’s seen real hell—more than once.

  Behind a massive desk, in a chair like a throne, sits Ivor. His silhouette stands out sharply against the raging ocean backdrop, like a sovereign indifferent to the outside world. Behind him—stands a statue of the Greek god Zeus, symbolizing a power both ancient and merciless.

  Ivor rises, his smile spreading—manipulative, confident, as always.

  — Well, well. Who do we have here! — his voice drips with feigned delight. — Captain Ragnar himself. Good to see you, my friend. Take a seat.

  — Likewise, — Ragnar replies curtly, sinking into the chair opposite. His aide remains standing, straight as a soldier who knows his place.

  Ivor wastes no time. His eyes burn with a fiery gleam.

  — I hope you bring good news? Did you complete the mission?

  Ragnar pauses. His fingers interlock tightly. His gaze doesn’t leave Ivor’s.

  — We reached the station. The takeover was easy—almost no security. But the crew, led by their captain, barricaded themselves in a sealed section. We offered them a deal: hand over all extracted ergon, and they live. In the future—they work for the corporation.

  Ivor narrows his eyes, hanging on every word.

  — Their answer?

  — They detonated a thermogrenade. Every last one of them. Ashes.

  Ivor falls silent for a moment, processing the words. He doesn’t want to believe it, but his face remains unreadable.

  — You’re sure?

  — Believe me, after a blast like that, nothing remains but memories. We didn’t waste time cutting it open. Everything on that station is floating in space now.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Ivor closes his eyes briefly. His fingers drift over the desk’s surface like he's absorbing every second. Even in silence, his presence presses down—heavy, suffocating.

  — What about the ergon?

  — Gone. The whole storage—empty. They jettisoned the container into open space. It’s hidden somewhere out there, in the vacuum.

  Again, Ivor is silent, his gaze sharper than before. He feels the storm coming. But he already knows—it won’t end here.

  — Well then, — his voice is calmer than ever. — I guess it’s your job to find that container. Understood, Captain?

  Ragnar says nothing. His stare speaks volumes. This isn’t just failure. It’s a threat to everyone aboard.

  Ivor leans back in his chair, fingers laced. His eyes drift into nothingness. He knows the ergon is gone. Behind him, the ocean keeps raging—but in this world of virtual storms and illusions, it feels empty.

  — This… was a simple job. We bought their debts. You were supposed to collect the resource, break their will, and bring them to heel. Instead—suicide, a ghost station, and zero ergon. That station’s cursed now—no investor will touch it. And the debts… just paper. Do you understand, Ragnar, the idiocy of what you’ve done?

  Ragnar sits rigid, fists clenched, muscles tight, his face still. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give in—but Ivor’s words weigh heavier with every syllable.

  — Cool it, Ivor, — he snaps, barely holding his composure. — You’re not the only one I make deals with.

  Ivor studies him, gaze like a needle—piercing, cold, leaving no room for evasion. Then he tilts his head slightly, a smirk touching the corners of his lips.

  — Alright then, — he says, as if agreeing, but with sarcasm in his voice. — At least you came back with empty hands.

  — We didn’t get far. We hid nearby. Soon after, a rescue ship arrived at the station. They didn’t save anyone—you can’t resurrect the dead. But… they found the ergon. Hauled the container aboard. I’m sure they had coordinates. We tried to intercept, boxed them in… but those lunatics dove straight toward the Sun. A desperate move. We followed, but the heat started melting our hull. We had to back off.

  Ivor exhales slowly, his shoulders sag slightly—as if genuinely bothered by what he hears. His gaze slides over Ragnar, weighing truth against excuse.

  — Everyone’s an idiot… except you, of course. Only you’re the hero. Incredible tale, Ragnar. Truly epic. But there’s one problem. You lost the ergon—and then tried to steal it from the one who found it, — his voice drops low and menacing. — That’s a breach of corporate protocol. Someone’s going to pay for that.

  Ragnar barely has time to process before Ivor pulls a personal pulse-gun from his belt. His fingers clench—and in the next instant, a flash erupts from the weapon.

  The inquisitor standing beside Ragnar doesn’t even scream—his body instantly vaporizes, leaving behind only a handful of gray ash that gently settles on the polished floor.

  Ragnar doesn’t move. His face reddens, jaw clenched in rage and shock. He rises but immediately reins himself in, suppressing the storm like a seasoned soldier. Only his eyes betray the strain.

  Ivor watches him, unblinking, face eerily calm.

  — Was I clear enough? — his voice barely more than a whisper, but colder than ice. — Do you understand that the corporation does not forgive losses… or disobedience?

  Ragnar forces out a single word:

  — Yes, boss…

  And only then does he realize—he’s never called him that before. A word that seemed impossible, now tinged with reluctant submission.

  Ivor nods, unfazed by the pause, holstering the weapon.

  — You’re dismissed. — He says it like brushing off an errand boy. — Next time, bring results.

  Ragnar stands, turns, and walks toward the exit. His steps echo loudly, the final chord of a heavy symphony.

  — Wait.

  He turns, gaze steady—no fear in his eyes.

  — Tell the secretary to clean that up. — Ivor gestures casually at the ashes. — I like my floor too much to let the dead ruin it.

  Ragnar lingers a moment longer, piercing gaze locked in place—then turns without a word and exits the hall. The door shuts behind him, leaving only silence. Deep and terrifying.