I hop on a cross-bubble tram and stay on for a few hours. I wander until I find a small hotel where I check in for an indefinite stay. Then I ask where the nearest com shop is.

The rest of my savings go towards a small holocom. I add the number Marinek scrawled on a slip for me. I stare at it for a minute, then I turn it off and attach it to the bracelet.

I quickly get back to my room, lock the door, then sit on the bed and try to figure out a plan. My thoughts keep rising and colliding and crashing back down. Eventually, I tire myself out with worry and decide to leave it till tomorrow. I collapse on the small bed and let weariness weigh me down.

A noise wakes me three hours later. I lay still and take deep even breaths. I count the seconds and listen. One, two, three, four, five, six—thump. Someone’s in the room with me.

With a deliberate slowness, I move my right hand to my bracelet. I feel the knife and slide my fingers two charms over to the laser cutter. Another noise, this time closer to the bed.

I can feel a presence looming behind me. I count backwards in my head: Three. Two. One. I sit up, pulling the laser off the bracelet. I hit the button and the beam just passes the intruder’s head, singing their ear. They freeze. 

The cut mostly cauterized but a small trickle of blood drips down their neck. My eyes refocus on their face. It’s not the same one I saw smoking outside the bakery yesterday.

I tilt my head towards the rickety chair by the desk. “Sit.”

They do.

“What do you want?” I stand to seem larger than I feel but keep my distance. The laser remains off and pointed at their chest.

They shake their head.

“Talk or you’ll lose an arm.”

They smile.

I try to make out my thoughts over my racing heart. They’re calling my bluff and I—

A sizzling bursts from behind me. The plasma blast is too fast to track. Only after it’s burned through the intruder’s head do I realize the sound I heard was the window melting. I drop to the floor.

I lay there, as still as I can, trying not to shake.

After some time, I sit up and try to assess the situation. The attack was too quiet to rouse anyone. At least one live bounty hunter knows where I am.

I glance back at the intruder, now slumped dead in the chair. Leaving will incriminate me. Deciding that I’m running from enough people as it is, I walk downstairs to get the night manager.

I’m questioned in turn by

- The hotel manager (roused, disheveled, and grumpy),

- Crisis services (both concerned for my wellbeing and concerned I lured the intruder to my room to be murdered),

- A psychologist (upset that I am alternating between blatant lying and sarcasm), and

- A reporter (whom I ignore but insists on leaving their card).

I’m asked, sternly, by crisis services to stay in-dimension until they can determine what exactly happened. And I’m asked, politely, by the hotel manager to find alternate accommodations after tonight.

I leave, walking aimlessly down the street, the first cracks of sunlight breaking through the waters to crest against the dome.