The oxygen mines of Blackglass weren’t meant for humans, but Rilo had no choice. The crystal fields exhaled breathable air, but extracting it was lethal—shards could pierce flesh like knives. Still, Rilo guided his drone carefully, siphoning precious gas into canisters.
One misstep. A tremor. The drone collapsed into a trench, severing its control link. Without it, Rilo’s shift was unpaid. His daughter’s medicine would run out.
He hesitated only a moment before stepping onto the glass himself. His suit’s pressure seals whined as he pushed forward, shards cracking beneath his boots. The drone lay tangled, tangled but intact—hopeful. Then, the ground shifted again, and he fell.
A hand caught his arm. No miner would risk themselves for another. But Daren, a rival, hauled him back.
As their suits hissed, venting oxygen, they retreated together, dragging the canisters between them. Survival, Rilo realized, wasn’t about solitary fights. It was about who reached for you when the ground fell away.
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