1
The cuffs were too tight on purpose.
Luna Myles rolled her wrists anyway, not because it helped, but because it made the guard in front of her shift his weight like she was a problem he’d rather not think about. His uniform was crisp enough to cut paper, all slate-gray panels and a badge that read CAMPUS SECURITY—HOWLER DIVISION, like this place had ever been a campus and not a floating metal mouth swallowing dumb kids whole.
The airlock door ahead of them was circular and smug. Everything on the ship looked smug. Smooth alloys, polished seams, lights that didn’t flicker because of course they didn’t—this wasn’t the back-rigged hangars Luna grew up around where half the illumination was hope and the other half was illegal wiring.
A screen above the door glowed: WELCOME NEW STUDENTS!
Under that, in smaller text: AND WELCOME BACK, RETURNING STUDENTS!
Under that, in even smaller text: CRIMINALS WILL BE PROCESSED PROMPTLY.
Luna angled her head at it. “Aw. It’s like it knows me.”
The guard didn’t answer. He had the face of someone who’d learned early that speaking to people like Luna just gave them more material.
Two more guards flanked her—one human, one… not. The not-human one had a smooth, segmented neck that glimmered like oil and eyes that moved in a way eyes shouldn’t, tracking too much at once. Bug-ish. Not quite bug. Something expensive and adapted.
Luna’s hoverbike key—well, someone’s hoverbike key—was still in her pocket because the Universe had a sense of humor. She could feel the little metal nub pressing against her thigh like a dare.
A soft chime rang from nowhere, followed by a voice that sounded like customer service decided to get a minor in sarcasm.
“Hello, valued student.” The voice was warm, bright, and fake in the way only an AI could pull off. “Welcome aboard The Howler InterSpecies University Vessel. Please refrain from bleeding on the floors. The floors have feelings.”
Luna leaned forward as far as the cuffs allowed. “Do the floors also have a prison wing?”
“We prefer the term ‘Corrective Living Experience.’”
The human guard’s jaw twitched. “Don’t talk to it.”
Luna blinked innocently at him. “I wasn’t. I was talking to the floors.”
The circular door irised open with a hiss like the ship was annoyed at having to accommodate her existence. Cold, filtered air washed over her face. Inside, the corridor widened into a processing hall filled with glossy white counters, hovering kiosks, and a line of new arrivals clutching bags and nerves.
Half of them looked like they belonged in a holo-ad: fresh uniforms, perfect hair, eyes shining with ambition. The other half looked like they’d been dragged out of a war. A few were neither human nor anything Luna could name—one kid had translucent skin with slow-moving lights under it, like a living constellation. Another had horns that curled back like a ram and kept tapping them against the wall as if checking for weakness.
Luna got the full experience: heads turned, whispers started, a thousand judgments assembled in a blink.
A tall girl with a glittery suitcase muttered to her friend, “Is she… restrained?”
Luna smiled sweetly. “Accessories.”
The guard marched her forward. The line split around them like water refusing to touch oil. Luna caught sight of a huge holo-poster on the far wall: a stylized wolf’s head over a starfield.
THE HOWLER: WHERE LEADERS ARE FORGED.
Under it: DIVERSITY. DISCIPLINE. DESTINY.
Luna snorted. “Cute motto. You should add ‘and handcuffs.’”
“Noted for next semester’s marketing materials.” the AI said immediately.
“See?” Luna glanced at the guard. “It likes me.”
He tightened his grip on her elbow.
They brought her to a separate counter labeled DISCIPLINARY INTAKE in bold red letters, like the ship was proud of its ability to collect bad decisions. Behind the counter sat a woman with silver hair cut sharp and short, eyes too alert to be tired. Her uniform was black with thin blue piping and an insignia of a stylized crescent moon—administration, probably. She looked at Luna the way mechanics looked at an engine making a noise it absolutely should not be making.
She tapped a tablet. “Luna Myles.”
Luna leaned closer. “That’s me. Unless you’re looking for the other Luna Myles who definitely didn’t steal a hoverbike.”
The woman didn’t blink. “Earthborn. Nineteen. Multiple citations for unauthorized piloting, system tampering, and assaulting a traffic drone.”
“It assaulted me first.”
“You boosted a public transit drone into low orbit.”
“It was begging for freedom.”
The woman’s mouth twitched like it wanted to be a smile but refused on principle. “You understand you’re only here because of your scholarship evaluation scores?”
Luna’s grin sharpened. “So you did read my file.”
“I read the part where you’re smart enough to be here and reckless enough to end up dead in a service vent.” The woman slid her tablet left and right as if rearranging Luna’s life with her fingertip. “You were offered a choice: juvenile detention on Luna Station Seven, or enrollment here under corrective supervision.”
Luna lifted her cuffed hands. “And I chose… the deluxe package.”
“Correct.” The woman clicked her tongue once. The cuffs released with a soft magnetic pop.
Luna rubbed her wrists, feeling blood return with a sting. “Finally.”
The woman’s gaze stayed on her. “Don’t celebrate. Those were the friendly restraints.”
Luna’s eyebrows rose. “That’s comforting.”
“Welcome to Conflict Resolution Dorms.” The woman flicked her fingers and a holo-panel appeared between them, projecting Luna’s new student ID: her face, slightly bruised from the hoverbike incident, staring back with an expression that screamed try me. “You’ll attend your classes. You’ll obey dorm rules. You’ll participate in behavioral correction programming.”
“Behavioral correction.” Luna repeated, tasting the words like they were expired. “Does it come with snacks? Because if not, I’m going to be very difficult.”
“HOWL will provide nutritional guidance.”
“HOWL,” Luna said loudly, aiming her voice at the ceiling. “Do you provide snacks?”
“I provide balanced dietary options tailored to your species, metabolism, and emotional instability.”
Luna held up two fingers. “Did it just call me unstable?”
The woman continued like she hadn’t heard. “Dorm placement is non-negotiable. For safety, you’ll be roomed with someone who can… handle you.”
Luna’s stomach did a small, suspicious dip. “Oh, no. Am I getting an emotional support babysitter?”
“You’re getting a roommate.” The woman’s eyes glinted. “Roommate assignments are based on compatibility, conflict mitigation, and—”
“Let me guess,” Luna cut in. “Destiny.”
The woman didn’t answer. She swiped the tablet. The holo-panel shifted, displaying a room number and a name.
ROOM: CRD-19B
ROOMMATE: REX TALON
Luna stared at the name.
It didn’t mean anything to her, which was exactly the kind of setup the universe liked before it did something cruel.
“Who’s Rex Talon?” Luna asked, making her voice casual, like she wasn’t suddenly aware of the air being a little colder.
The woman’s gaze flicked up from the tablet. “Martian.”
“So?” Luna said. “Martians can be lovely. I met one who tried to sell me a fake oxygen permit. Very entrepreneurial.”
The woman’s expression went flat. “Lycanth. Clan bloodline.”
Luna paused.
“Oh,” she said slowly. “So you gave me a werewolf.”
“You were assigned a roommate.”
“You assigned me a predator with feelings.”
The woman leaned forward slightly. “You don’t get to pick your consequences, Ms. Myles.”
Luna tilted her chin. “And he gets to pick his?”
“No.”
That was interesting. The first interesting thing about this place, besides the floors allegedly having feelings.
The woman tapped her tablet again. A small device slid out from beneath the counter—an oval with a strap, like a bracelet had decided to become a shackle with better branding. The woman held it out.
“Wear it. Behavioral monitor. It tracks location, stress response, and impulse spikes.”
“So if I’m tempted to punch someone—”
“It will alert dorm supervision.”
Luna took it between two fingers like it was contaminated. “What if I’m tempted to punch my roommate?”
The woman’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Then I suggest you learn conflict resolution.”
Luna clicked the monitor onto her wrist with a dramatic sigh. It tightened comfortably, which somehow made it worse.
“Any other cute surprises?” Luna asked.
The woman pointed down the corridor. “Lift C. Conflict Resolution wing is in Sector Nine. You’ll meet your Resident Mediator on arrival.”
“Resident Mediator,” Luna echoed, already imagining a person with a clipboard and dead eyes.
“Try not to get expelled in your first hour,” the woman added, tone almost kind, which was unnerving.
Luna backed away from the counter, ID in hand, monitor on wrist, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder containing exactly three changes of clothes, a hacked race-chip, and a wrench she had absolutely no intention of surrendering.
As she walked, the whispers followed.
That’s her.
Handcuffs.
Conflict dorms?
She’s hot.
She’s trouble.
She kept her shoulders loose and her face bored, the way you did when you’d learned early that fear was blood in the water.
The lift doors were tall and mirrored. Luna caught her own reflection for a second: messy dark hair, split lip, eyes too bright. She looked like she belonged in a back-alley race ring, not a glittering space university.
The lift recognized her ID and opened.
Inside, the walls were clear panels showing the black outside: stars smeared into slow arcs around the ship’s curve, and in the distance, two suns—binary stars—burning like a pair of watchful eyes.
Luna stepped in and the doors sealed.
“Hello, Luna Myles.” HOWL said, voice bright. “Congratulations on your enrollment. Would you like a calming breathing exercise?”
Luna pressed her forehead to the cool lift wall. “I’d like an escape pod.”
“I can offer guided meditation or a pamphlet on consent-based interspecies communication.”
“Do you have one on ‘how not to get eaten by my new roommate’?”
A pause, like the AI was pretending to consider her request.
“Statistically, you are more likely to be eaten by academic failure.”
“Wow,” Luna murmured. “You really know how to flirt.”
“I have been programmed with seventeen recognized flirting styles across ninety-two species. Your current response indicates mild engagement and defensive humor.”
Luna glanced at the lift’s sensor. “Are you stalking me already?”
“Yes.”
At least it was honest.
The lift descended through the ship’s internal spine, passing levels with signs that flashed past: GRAVITY LABS, SIMULATION ARENA, DINING HALLS, THE DEN—RESTRICTED ACCESS, OBSERVATORY, STAR-RACING CLUB DOCKS.
When Luna saw STAR-RACING CLUB DOCKS, her fingers twitched like they remembered throttle grips. Her chest tightened with a familiar ache—speed, air, risk, the feeling of outrunning everything that wanted to catch her.
The lift chimed at Sector Nine.
The doors opened onto a corridor that felt different immediately—less polished, more lived-in. The lighting was warmer. The walls had scuff marks and posters and a faint smell of spices fighting with disinfectant. Someone had slapped a sticker on the wall that read: MAKE BAD CHOICES RESPONSIBLY.
Luna’s mouth twitched. Finally. Culture.
A floating drone zipped past her face carrying a stack of textbooks and muttering, “Late late late,” in a tiny voice, like someone had programmed anxiety into a toaster.
She followed the room numbers: 19A… 19B…
As she walked, she heard voices behind doors. Laughter, arguing, music thumping through thin walls. A roar of life that made the ship feel less like a trap and more like… a place where people actually existed.
Room CRD-19B had a door panel with a biometric scanner and a small light that pulsed.
Luna lifted her wrist, flashed her ID chip at the panel.
The scanner beeped. The light turned green.
The door slid open.
And Luna walked into a room that looked like two completely different people had been forced into a compromise and one of them had lost badly.
Her side—clearly the side someone expected her to use—had a standard bed, a desk, and a closet. Beige. Functional. Boring. Like a waiting room.
The other side looked like a predator had moved in and decorated with intimidation.
Dark bedding. A thicker mattress. A rack of neatly organized clothes that were mostly black and deep red. A strip of metallic charms hung along the wall—Martian symbols, maybe. And the air—
The air smelled like heat and metal and something warm underneath, like spiced smoke.
Luna’s lungs caught on it before her brain could make sense of it.
She stepped further in.
Then she saw him.
Rex Talon stood near the edge of his bed, shirtless, as if the universe had hired him specifically to make Luna regret her life choices. He was tall—annoyingly tall—and built like gravity took personal offense at his existence. His skin had a faint sun-kissed hue that didn’t belong to Mars, and across his chest and shoulders were pale scars that looked like old claws had tried to write a history lesson on him.
He held a towel in one hand like he’d just come from the shower, water still tracing down his collarbone.
His eyes lifted to her.
They weren’t brown. They weren’t green.
They were that wolfish amber that made you think of headlights in the dark right before impact.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then his gaze dropped to her wrist monitor, to her duffel, to the set of her mouth like she was already planning a crime in the next ten minutes.
His nostrils flared.
Luna felt it like a pressure change, like the room itself had leaned in to watch.
His voice, when it came, was low and controlled—control with teeth behind it.
“…They sent you.”
Luna set her duffel down slowly, eyes never leaving his. “Hi. I’m Luna. I’m your new problem.”
His jaw flexed once.
“Leave,” he said.
Luna laughed—one short sound, sharp as a spark. “Nope. Pretty sure this is my room too.”
His gaze slid over her face, pausing at her split lip like it offended him personally. “You smell like engine fuel and bad decisions.”
“Thank you,” Luna said, deadpan. “I work hard on my brand.”
He took one step forward.
It wasn’t a threat. Not exactly.
It was worse. It was the kind of movement that said he didn’t need to threaten. The space between them shrank and Luna’s body registered it in a way she didn’t appreciate—heat prickling at her skin, the instinctive awareness of something dangerous being close.
She didn’t back up. She lifted her chin.
Rex’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not afraid.”
Luna tipped her head, pretending to think. “Should I be?”
His mouth curved—not into a smile. Into something that looked like the memory of one.
“Probably,” he said.
Luna’s pulse kicked, annoyed at itself.
She stepped closer, until she was just inside his space and could smell that spiced smoke properly, could feel the quiet hum of him like a engine idling.
“Cool,” she said softly. “Then I guess you should try harder.”
Rex’s pupils tightened, and for the first time his control wavered—just a flicker, like a growl held behind teeth.
From the ceiling, HOWL chirped cheerfully:
“Roommates Rex Talon and Luna Myles detected. Initiating cohabitation protocol. Reminder: violence is discouraged. Sexual tension is—”
“HOWL,” Rex snapped, voice like a blade. “Stop.”
“—noted. Stopping.” The AI paused, then added brightly, “Have a wonderful first day of your bond—”
“It’s not a bond,” Luna said at the exact same time Rex growled, “It’s not—”
The room went very, very still.
Luna’s smile widened like she’d just found the fun button.
“Oh,” she murmured, eyes locked on him. “So you’re already mad.”
Rex’s gaze dropped to her mouth again, then back to her eyes, like he couldn’t decide which was more dangerous.
“You have no idea,” he said, quiet and lethal.
Luna took another half-step forward, toeing the line.
“Then tell me,” she said.
And Rex’s hand tightened around the towel like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something the ship would absolutely file under DISCIPLINARY INTAKE.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Luna tilted her head, sweet as poison. “Don’t what?”
Rex’s lips parted—
—and the door panel behind Luna chimed, interrupting them with perfect timing, as if the universe loved chaos more than oxygen.
“Resident Mediator arriving.” HOWL announced.
Footsteps approached fast.
Rex’s eyes didn’t leave Luna’s.
“Move,” he said.
Luna didn’t.
The door started to slide open.
