A friend of a friend tended to take one far. Another IPC ship, another ludicrous amount of Credits he'd barely scraped together to cover his fare despite the bullseye hanging over his head that had become a secretive warning not to allow him passage, to blacklist him as a murderous shadow hounded him to hell and life again. He was a liability, a walking target that risked millions in damages as some lines had already suffered despite the apparent randomness of the attacks. And yet, endlessly running was the only way he could survive, and survive he would.
In the late midnight hour, the interloper who had smuggled Dan Heng aboard hissed at him to enter the lower-class canteen, the exile ducking into the kitchen where he was instructed to take enough food to last him through the next day, the only means by which he could gain sustenance under cover of darkness. The light of the industrial refrigerator cast wanly upon him, spinning a waxy picture of an exhausted man cradling several foodstuffs in his arms that he could at least stomach. The crinkling of plastic as he leafed through freeze-dried packages resonated too loudly in the space gleaming with chrome appliances, working quickly.
Yet, when his contractor hissed that they weren't alone anymore, the coward dashed away and Dan Heng stood guilelessly in his wake. The faint, acrid scent of cigarette smoke greeted his nose and causing him to grimace.
Shortsighted as it was, Dan Heng closed the massive fridge door and prayed he wouldn't be heard.