CAINE
The pump clicks off again—the third time in only a few seconds. I throw my head back and rub at my nape, feeling my teeth grind together.
Patience.
I am capable of patience.
Even when dealing with a piece of shit, malfunctioning fuel pump.
Fuel trickles into the second red jug at an agonizing pace, for the fourth try. The first jug filled fine. The second keeps stopping, as if the pump decided to malfunction midway through.
Not my fault.
It just… happened.
Rolling my shoulders back, I squint at the sky. Not at the numbers inching upward. No point in feeding my annoyance, or this restless energy racing under my skin.
A gust of wind whips across the station. The scent it carries is sharp and artificial, and my nose wrinkles as I sniff it in a little deeper. It's strange; I can't quite place it, but it just doesn't smell like a normal weather pattern. And beneath it all, something kind of itchy and strange.
