Lian ran as fast as he could all to save his
uncle.
He banged on doors until Old Jax and two other miners came running.
They all went home together, they lifted Harlan onto a scrap-metal stretcher and rushed him through the dark walkways.
The medic was an old woman named Mira. She had cheap aug eyes that glowed green and hands that shook from too many years fixing broken bodies. She worked fast in her tiny clinic, setting the bones with metal pins and wrapping both legs tight. But she shook her head when Lian asked if Harlan would walk again.
"Shattered too bad," she said quietly. "He'll live, but the legs won't hold weight anymore. I'm sorry, boy."
Lian paid her with every credit he had saved. He carried Harlan home at dawn, he carried the old man, light as paper in his arms.
Back in the hab-pod, Lian built a low bed near the floor so Harlan could reach it.
He fixed a rolling chair from junk parts. Every morning and night he helped Harlan move, wash, eat. He smiled while he did it—big smiles, loud jokes, funny stories from the mines.
Harlan always smiled back, but his faded blue eyes looked sad. "You don't have to pretend for me, Lian."
"I'm not pretending," Lian would say, voice bright. "We're still here. That's enough."
But little by little, the bright light in Lian's blue eyes started to fade.
At first it was small things. His laughs got shorter. His jokes came slower. When he told stories, his hands didn't move as much. The other miners noticed.
"Hey, sparkle-boy," Jax said one day after shift. "You okay? You look like the dust finally got inside you."
Lian forced a grin. "Just tired. Double shifts now, remember? Gotta pay that debt."
The syndicate kept their word in the worst way. They didn't come back to hurt Harlan again, but they put Lian on the hardest jobs. Deep tunnels. Unstable veins full of raw Qi crystals that burned lungs and skin. Twelve-hour shifts became sixteen. Sometimes eighteen.
He went because he had to. Every extra credit kept the syndicate away. Every hard day meant Harlan stayed safe.
He left before the suns rose and came home after they set. Covered in glowing dust, coughing, bones aching. But he still bounced through the door.
"Uncle! Got real soup today!" he'd call, holding up a warm pack.
Harlan watched from his low bed, worry growing on his lined face. "You're killing yourself, boy. You're getting thinner. Your eyes… they don't shine like before."
Lian would sit beside him, spoon-feed the soup, and tell small stories. But the stories got quieter. The smiles got smaller.
One night, after a bad shift where a tunnel almost caved in, Lian came home late. His hands shook as he opened the door. Dust covered him head to toe. A long cut ran down his arm from sharp crystal.
Harlan looked up from his chair. "Lian… come here."
Lian dropped his bag and knelt by the bed. For the first time in weeks, he didn't smile right away.
"I'm scared, Uncle," he whispered. "If I stop working hard, they'll come back. I can't let that happen again. I have to be stronger. I have to keep you safe."
Harlan reached out and touched Lian's dusty cheek with a thin hand. "You're already the strongest person I know. But strength isn't just working till you break."
Lian leaned into the touch. His bright blue eyes were dull now, like stormy water. "I don't know how to stop being scared."
They sat quiet for a long time. Outside, wind howled around the pod.
Harlan finally spoke soft. "There's something I never told you. About why they came that night. About my past."
Lian looked up. "The rebel picture?"
"More than that." Harlan's voice dropped lower. "Something worse is hunting me. Not just the syndicate. Something… older."
Lian felt cold run down his back. "What do you mean?"
Before Harlan could answer, a soft scrape came from outside the pod. Like metal on metal. Slow. Careful.
Lian stood fast, heart racing again. He moved to the small window and looked out.
The walkway was empty. Red dust blew in the wind.
But on the metal floor right outside their door, something new had been scratched deep into the surface.
A symbol. Rough circle with spikes coming out. Like a twisted sun. Or an eye.
Lian had never seen it before.
He turned back to Harlan. The old man's face was white. His faded blue eyes were wide with real terror.
"Lian," Harlan whispered. "Lock the door. Now."
Another scrape came—this time from the roof.
Something was up there.