The walk to Kella's warehouse felt different now. Not dangerous yet, but louder, more agitated. People shouted across the corridors about water allotments. Someone kicked over a crate and two others immediately started arguing about who it belonged to. A group of teens sprinted past, laughing too hard — the kind of laugh that covered fear.
Ceres wasn't breaking yet, but the cracks were already visible.
Kella shoved open the warehouse door and slipped inside, motioning Damian after her. Kojo peeled off with a nod, promising he'd be back once he "calmed his woman down before she killed someone over water."
Inside, the warehouse smelled like ozone, coolant, and old metal. Damian always felt more at ease here. Tools didn't lie. Machines didn't pretend. They broke in predictable ways.
People didn't.
Kella dropped her bag on a table and pushed her hair back. "Sit," she said. "Ya look like ya gonna either puke or punch a hole in something."
Damian sat on a crate, elbows on his knees. "Neither."
"Bullshit."
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "Something's coming. The station can feel it."
"Station ain't alive," she teased, trying for levity but failing. "It just old."
"That's the problem," he said. "Old systems don't handle sudden strain. And if the water shipments are delayed long enough—"
"People riot," Kella finished, voice flat.
"Yeah."
She paced, restless energy bouncing in her shoulders. "Corporate gonna blame OPA. OPA gonna blame Mars. Mars gonna blame pirates. Everyone blame everyone except the ones who actually screwed up."
Damian didn't answer.
His mind wasn't on politics. It was on resources. Weak points. The way certain support struts vibrated when the station was overpressured. The way air recyclers dropped output when the electricity grid overloaded. The way people got desperate when they couldn't shower, cook, or drink.
His instincts had kept him alive through two lifetimes. He trusted them.
Kella finally stopped pacing and looked at him. "Dami… how bad ya think it gonna get?"
He leaned back, staring at the rows of scrap piled around them. "Bad enough that I want to start preparing."
"Preparing what?"
He pointed at the scanner. "Fixing this. Building tools. Reinforcing my place. Getting water stored. Keeping food around."
Kella blinked. "Ya sound like survivalist."
Damian gave her a dry stare. "I used to build shelters under gunfire. I'm not taking chances."
She hesitated, then sat beside him. "Ya think station really that unstable?"
"I think the people running it don't care if it becomes unstable," he said. "And that's worse."
She didn't argue. Belters knew that truth too well.
Kella nudged the scanner toward him. "Show me. If ya think this help, I wanna see."
He powered it up again, stabilizing the cracked processor with a finger on the side casing. The display jittered but held.
He aimed it at the ceiling. Lines appeared—ghostly outlines of wiring, pipes, conduits. Some pulsed red. Some flickered from yellow to orange.
"What color supposed to mean?" she asked.
"Green means stable. Yellow means old. Orange means stress fractures. Red means someone didn't fix something important and now everyone's screwed."
She stared at the red pulsing section above them. "And that?"
"A coolant line running too hot. The regulator's worn out. If it blows, that entire wall is going to fog up the corridor with refrigerant."
She blinked. "That happen before?"
"Yeah," he said. "On a station smaller than this. Five people passed out from inhalation before anyone noticed."
Kella rubbed her neck. "Ya always this calm talkin' about dangerous things?"
"Someone has to be," Damian said. "Panic makes everything worse."
She studied him again, eyes narrowing. "What kinda job ya do before all this?"
He stiffened. "Construction work. Heavy machinery."
"Ya lie," she said bluntly. "But ya good man, so I ain't gonna push."
Damian exhaled slowly. "Thanks."
"Still," she added, smirking, "ya look like someone who used to blow things up for a living."
He stared at her. "Kella."
"Ya do, ya know. Quiet guy, steady hands, little too comfortable with danger."
He didn't confirm or deny it.
Her grin softened. "Is good thing. Station need people who don't break when things go bad."
He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like someone who'd seen too many disasters and wasn't eager for another.
Before he could answer, the lights flickered again — harder this time. Metal clanked somewhere overhead, followed by a distant rumble.
Kella froze. "That ain't normal."
"No," Damian said, standing. "It isn't."
A sharp crack echoed, then the unmistakable sound of people shouting in the next corridor.
Kella grabbed his arm. "Come on!"
They ran outside. A crowd had already gathered around a busted water line panel — water sprayed in thin jets, misting the hallway. People were scooping it into containers, hands, mouths, anything they could hold.
A security officer tried to push through, yelling that the water was contaminated until treated.
No one listened.
Damian felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.
This was just the beginning.
Kella whispered beside him, voice tight. "Dami… is this it? Is this the thing ya felt coming?"
He watched the chaos unfold — the desperation, the fear, the way one man shoved another so hard the second man's head smacked the wall.
He didn't look away.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "This is the start."