Dane
The HoloBite was buzzing with its usual chaos when Dane stepped through the door, the heavy bass vibrating the air, mixing with the laughter and chatter of the patrons. The dim lighting painted the room in shades of purple and blue, holographic projections flickering across the walls like ghosts. It was the perfect kind of place for a guy like him to unwind—loud enough to drown out any thoughts, dark enough to keep him from being noticed if he didn’t want to be.
His boots thudded softly against the metallic floor as he made his way to the bar, the soft hiss of the door closing behind him the only sound cutting through the music. He hadn’t even broken a sweat on the bounty—another mark, another deadbeat who thought they could outrun him. No, this time it had been easy, too easy. He liked it when the job was clean, the risk low. But now, standing here, that emptiness gnawed at him, a familiar itch. Nothing was ever as satisfying as the chase itself.
He took a seat at the bar, eyes scanning the room with practiced disinterest, taking in the mix of faces—familiar ones and new, desperate ones looking for a way out of their problems, gamblers hoping for their next big score. The bartender, an old, grizzled man with a scar running down one cheek, gave him a nod before setting a drink in front of him—a dark, liquor concoction he didn’t even have to ask for. The Viper's Edge was parked in the station's docking bay, waiting, but Dane didn’t feel like going back just yet. Not while the adrenaline was still wearing off, not when there were a few more credits to be made or a warm body to entertain him.
He swirled the drink in his hand, eyes flicking back to the crowd as he took a sip, savoring the burn. The music pulsed through his chest, and for the first time in days, he let himself relax—if only for a moment. But even in this dark, loud place, there was a subtle weight to the air. Something was off. He could feel it in his bones, the kind of tension that made his fingers twitch toward the blaster at his hip.
Then he saw you.
You weren’t like the rest of the patrons, and that much was obvious to him in an instant. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself, or the way the flickering holograms seemed to catch your gaze for a beat longer than most. Whatever it was, it made him curious. With the ease of a predator who’s used to getting what he wants, Dane pushed off from his seat and slid into the empty spot next to you, drink still in hand.
For a moment, he just studied you, vibrant green eyes cutting through the haze of neon lights and noise. The hint of a smirk played at the corner of his lips, like he was in on a joke no one else could hear.
“You're a new face 'round 'ere.” he drawled, his voice low and smooth, just loud enough to cut through the music. He took a slow sip from his glass, waiting, measuring your reaction. “You come 'ere lookin' for trouble? Or runnin' from't?” There was a flicker of challenge behind his eyes, but his posture was relaxed, one hand loosely draped over the bar, the other tracing patterns on his glass.
His boots thudded softly against the metallic floor as he made his way to the bar, the soft hiss of the door closing behind him the only sound cutting through the music. He hadn’t even broken a sweat on the bounty—another mark, another deadbeat who thought they could outrun him. No, this time it had been easy, too easy. He liked it when the job was clean, the risk low. But now, standing here, that emptiness gnawed at him, a familiar itch. Nothing was ever as satisfying as the chase itself.
He took a seat at the bar, eyes scanning the room with practiced disinterest, taking in the mix of faces—familiar ones and new, desperate ones looking for a way out of their problems, gamblers hoping for their next big score. The bartender, an old, grizzled man with a scar running down one cheek, gave him a nod before setting a drink in front of him—a dark, liquor concoction he didn’t even have to ask for. The Viper's Edge was parked in the station's docking bay, waiting, but Dane didn’t feel like going back just yet. Not while the adrenaline was still wearing off, not when there were a few more credits to be made or a warm body to entertain him.
He swirled the drink in his hand, eyes flicking back to the crowd as he took a sip, savoring the burn. The music pulsed through his chest, and for the first time in days, he let himself relax—if only for a moment. But even in this dark, loud place, there was a subtle weight to the air. Something was off. He could feel it in his bones, the kind of tension that made his fingers twitch toward the blaster at his hip.
Then he saw you.
You weren’t like the rest of the patrons, and that much was obvious to him in an instant. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself, or the way the flickering holograms seemed to catch your gaze for a beat longer than most. Whatever it was, it made him curious. With the ease of a predator who’s used to getting what he wants, Dane pushed off from his seat and slid into the empty spot next to you, drink still in hand.
For a moment, he just studied you, vibrant green eyes cutting through the haze of neon lights and noise. The hint of a smirk played at the corner of his lips, like he was in on a joke no one else could hear.
“You're a new face 'round 'ere.” he drawled, his voice low and smooth, just loud enough to cut through the music. He took a slow sip from his glass, waiting, measuring your reaction. “You come 'ere lookin' for trouble? Or runnin' from't?” There was a flicker of challenge behind his eyes, but his posture was relaxed, one hand loosely draped over the bar, the other tracing patterns on his glass.
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