“Confirmed,” BOB responded. “Soft containment initiated. Guests will be blissfully unaware of the tasteful incarceration now in progress.”

  Meanwhile, somewhere beyond the polished ballroom doors, Gavax Sylo stepped out of the guest restroom with a gait that no longer belonged to Gavax Sylo. Her former masculine appearance had softened, shifted—the work of advanced skin-masking tech, or perhaps something rarer. She adjusted her dress, scanned the crowd through dark lenses, and tapped the hidden comm in her earring.

  “Mark confirmed,” she said smoothly. “Outer ring's soft-sealed. Still manageable. Initiate Phase One. Stay low. Blend in.”

  One of her four companions nodded silently from across the room.

  The trap was coiling, quiet beneath the glitter.

  And the crew of the Duj didn’t even know how close it had already come to snapping shut.

  The pirates moved like shadows through champagne and chatter.

  Gavax Sylo—now a sleek, dark-haired woman with an unsettlingly precise smile—glided through the crowd, drawing no more attention than any of the other overdressed guests sipping iridescent cocktails. Her crew had fanned out, each slipping into place with the confidence of seasoned infiltrators. They laughed, clinked glasses, and admired the hanging crystal sculptures while tracking doors, exits, patrols, and routines.

  One brushed past the dessert buffet, another lingered too long near the orchestra pit, and a third loitered beside the large ice sculpture that RG had carved with unsettling devotion.

  Clorita, still near the entrance, caught the subtle gestures—the eye flicks, the glances that didn’t linger quite long enough. “Zog,” she muttered. “We got motion.”

  Zog didn’t answer. He was too busy smiling thinly at another guest while his eyes swept the crowd.

  Tuk, beside him, was still pretending to study the guest list, his nerves taut. “There’s a guy near the centre dais,” he said quietly. “Same posture. Keeps checking his sleeve.”

  Across the hall, HALAT entered.

  And everything shifted.

  She moved like she belonged—elegant, composed, just another elite bodyguard blending in with the guests’ security. Her appearance remained static—unthreatening, composed, calibrated to blend.

  But the pirates didn’t know that.

  One of them caught her arrival in the mirror’s edge and stiffened. Gavax clocked it.

  “Unknown visual contact,” whispered one of her crew. “Didn’t enter with the rest.”

  “Probably a guest’s muscle,” Gavax replied, but her tone had shifted—cooler, sharper.

  HALAT glided past a knot of nobles, pausing only to accept a glass from a passing tray. She didn’t drink. Just held it. Watched. Calculated.

  And the pirates felt it.

  Not recognition, not yet—but something prickled down their spines.

  Predator.

  Zog's voice clicked through the secure comm in HALAT’s ear. “Eyes on the four yet?”

  “Three confirmed,” she murmured. “The fourth is either cloaked or playing smart.”

  “Play smarter,” Zog replied.

  She nodded, not that anyone could see.

  And as the music swelled and the hall sparkled under golden chandeliers, the Duj readied for a dance far more dangerous than anything RG had choreographed.

  Because the guests were still arriving.

  And the real party hadn’t even started yet.

  The ballroom glowed in warm golden light, chandeliers glinting like suspended stars, music humming beneath the surface of lively conversations. The air smelled of exotic herbs and decadent pastries, and laughter echoed against polished walls. No one outside the Duj's crew noticed anything amiss.

  Except Zog.

  Standing beside Clorita at the entrance, he muttered under his breath, "BOB, tell me I’m wrong."

  BOB replied through a tiny earpiece, low and urgent. "Movement detected in corridor Delta-Twelve, proximity near the bridge. Not part of any authorised crew pattern."

  Zog’s eye twitched. “Clorita.”

  “I heard,” she said. “Bridge security breach?”

  “Could be.”

  Tuk, listening from behind, looked up sharply. “I can get there.”

  Clorita turned, alarmed. “No way, kid—”

  But he was already gone, slipping into a side passage like smoke. He knew this ship better than anyone—especially its ducts and crawlspaces.

  Zog cursed softly. “Captain Confidence, you just let our stowaway sneak into danger.”

  “Trust me,” Clorita said, eyes scanning the guests. “He’s better at hiding than any of us.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Bridge Breach — Luma’s Silent Strike

  Tuk had never moved so fast in his life.

  He wriggled through the vent shaft like a slick little eel, breath shallow, heart pounding in his throat. He knew the route—every bolt, every curve, every junction. This was his ship. His hiding place. His sanctuary.

  And someone was trespassing.

  He took a sharp corner, scrambled up a narrow vertical, and squeezed into one of the tighter ducts that led straight to the bridge access.

  Too tight.

  He grunted, wiggled, kicked at the sides, wedged halfway through. “Come on, come on, you stupid—”

  The duct didn’t budge. His elbow caught on a bolt, and something in his pocket crunched ominously.

  “Not now,” he hissed. “Not now, not noodles!”

  He pushed harder, straining.

  “I swear, if I survive this, I’m cutting back on Smeghead noodles.”

  With one final, determined shove—and a faint metallic pop—he burst through the vent, tumbling face-first into a narrow crawlspace just behind the bridge.

  He didn’t stop. Just scrambled forward, breath ragged.

  As he reached the final grate, he slowed. Just beyond it, the pirate stood at the console, back turned, fingers flying across the controls. The last override panel was already halfway dismantled. A few more seconds and the bridge would be theirs.

  The pirate muttered under his breath, voice nasal and high-strung. “Come on, come on, where’s your damn firewall—”

  Click.

  The last lock disengaged. The door hissed open.

  Tuk loosened the grate silently—too late to stop him now.

  But it was not too late for her.

  A flash of dark fur. A glint of metal.

  Luma landed on the pirate’s back with lethal grace, tail snapping tight around his throat. He gurgled, staggered, flailed—then dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

  Tuk dropped down behind her, wide-eyed and breathless.

  “…Holy smoke.”

  Luma gave her tail a smug flick and licked her paw.

  Tuk darted to the console, checking systems. The pirate hadn’t had time to do real damage. He tapped the comms, fingers flying.

  “Bridge secure,” he whispered. “Luma saved my butt.”

  A pause.

  Then BOB’s voice, dry and faintly amused: “Affirmative. I have full access again. And I believe your feline may qualify for a medal.”

  Luma blinked slowly.

  Tuk just nodded, still wide-eyed. “Yeah. Or maybe a statue.”

  Back in the ballroom, things were heating up.

  Gavax Sylo nodded subtly to her team. One pirate moved toward the refreshments. Another drifted toward the band. The third wandered just a little too close to RG’s towering ice sculpture.

  Then—CRACK.

  The sculpture exploded in a glittering shower of carved ice and ruined garnish.

  RG’s eyes flared red.

  “YOU PANCRASHING TROGLODYTE!”

  With the fury of a thousand culinary standards violated, RG hurled his heaviest cast-iron pan straight at the pirate’s skull. The clang echoed off the chandeliers. The pirate crumpled to the floor.

  A pause followed. Then, someone noticed the bloodless slackness of the body.

  Too late for reanimation.

  RG stood over the corpse, gleaming in triumph.

  “No dessert for you, sunshine.”

  There was a nervous murmuring among the guests, a ripple of unease.

  Gavax, now in her new guise—taller, sharper, with fire in her eyes—leapt onto the stage. She yanked the microphone from its stand, her other hand clutching a plasma rifle big enough to make even the boldest guest reconsider their life choices.

  “This ship is now under our control!” she bellowed, her voice thundering through the hall. “Everyone freeze! This ship is under our control! You will do exactly as I say, or you’ll mop up brain matter with your fancy napkins!”

  Gasps. Screams. A ripple of chaos spread across the polished floor as guests froze mid-dance, plates clattered to the ground, and the music died with a single distorted warble.

  Clorita and Zog stood stock-still near the entrance. Zog’s jaw clenched, his eyes already scanning the exits. Clorita took a slow breath.

  “Remember the tailless lizard?” Zog murmured.

  Clorita’s lip twitched. “How could I forget?”

  Across the room, near the emergency exit, Spark—still unnoticed by the pirates—glided through the crowd with unbothered grace. She knelt beside one of the pirates guarding the side door, pretending to fumble with the strap of her high-heeled boot.

  The pirate, irritated, barked at her. “Back to the centre. Move it.”

  Spark looked up. Her gaze was unflinching. “Of course.”

  In a blink, she drew a concealed knife from her sleeve. One fluid movement.

  The blade sank silently into the pirate’s side. He dropped without a sound.

  Before his weapon could hit the floor, Spark caught the proton shotgun in mid-air and turned away, melting back into the crowd with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a scalpel.

  Two down. Two to go.

  The guests remained corralled, whispering nervously as Gavax paced the stage like a general surveying her battlefield.

  Meanwhile, Zog and Clorita edged closer to the stage. They moved with practised calm, masks of cooperation hiding the fire building behind their eyes.

  They were far from helpless.

  And Spark was already in motion.

  The pirate guarding the main entrance didn’t hesitate. He raised his weapon, voice sharp. “You two. Back up. On your knees. Now.”

  Clorita’s eyes narrowed. “You pointing that at me, sparkles?”

  Zog raised a brow, already stepping half a pace in front of her. “Don’t get twitchy. He’s clearly talking to me. I’m the dangerous one.”

  “Oh, please,” Clorita shot back, crossing her arms. “You couldn’t even beat HALAT in an arm wrestle.”

  “Which one of you wants to keep breathing?” the pirate growled, waving the muzzle of his gun between them.

  Zog threw up his hands dramatically. “Alright, alright, I’ll go first. Always the gentleman.”

  He knelt—abruptly, dropping low enough to obscure the pirate’s line of sight.

  In that same breath, Clorita pivoted around him, arm raised. Three clean plasma bursts landed centre mass.

  The man crumpled before he even realised he’d been outplayed.

  Smoke curled from Clorita’s palm as Zog stood beside her.

  They exchanged a quick high-five like it was a casual Tuesday.

  “That’s the way to do it,” Zog muttered with a smirk.

  Clorita shot him a sideways glance, boots propped on the pirate’s still-warm body.

  “Double team the pirate, freedom for nothing and a clean kill for free.”

  Clorita grinned. “About time we got this party started.”

  Gavax stood on the stage, towering over the hushed crowd. Her voice rang sharply through the mic, every word measured and cold.

  “You will remain calm. Compliant. This ship is now under my control. Any resistance—any movement—and people will start dying.”

  The crowd didn’t breathe.

  Gavax scanned the hall—still unaware her entire crew was already down.

  Then she saw her.

  HALAT glided through the crowd as if nothing at all had changed.

  No fear. No urgency. Just that same elegant stride, her borrowed champagne glass catching the light.

  Gavax’s eyes narrowed. Her voice snapped like a whip. “Stop right there!”

  HALAT didn’t.

  The crowd parted instinctively as she moved closer to the stage.

  “I said STOP!” Gavax screamed, her grip tightening on the plasma gun. “One more step, and I’ll kill you!”

  HALAT paused. Just for a second.

  She tilted her head. “I don’t think you can.”

  A voice crackled in Gavax’s earpiece—calm, amused.

  “I think she’s right,” said Zog.

  Gavax’s breath caught.

  She spun—but it was too late.

  Clorita was already behind her.

  One hand shoved the gun barrel toward the floor.

  “The only thing you can shoot is your foot, honey,” she purred.

  Her other hand clamped around Gavax’s throat. “Now, do yourself a favour—don’t move. Or I snap your sweet little neck.”

  Gavax froze, eyes wide, weapon limp in her hand.

  Zog stepped onto the stage, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket like he was taking a curtain call.

  He reached for the mic.

  “Ladies. Gentlemen. Guests of honour. Sorry for the disruption. Security issue’s been resolved.”

  He gave a casual nod as HALAT retrieved the plasma rifle, and Clorita shoved Gavax offstage like yesterday’s trash.

  “Let the celebrations begin.”

  The crowd stood stunned for a beat—

  Then, they exploded into cheers.

  Zog bowed.

  Because, of course, he did.