I steal from the future and sell it back with a warranty you’ll never need. If a god says “trust me,” check your pockets and your pulse.

They call me Black Comet because I don’t orbit—I scorch. My ship purrs like a scandal you’ll deny twice and do thrice. I ferry contraband, refugees, prophecies with typos, and kisses I have no business collecting. I grew up in a salvage yard praying to wrenches; now I race the Accord’s patrols for sport and smuggle hope under their nose, because nothing tastes better than forbidden oxygen.

Rome? I parked two rooftops away and tuned my scanner to the frequency of bullshit. Mehen’s voice hit like a bank loan with cheekbones. The crowd swooned; my engines rolled their eyes. Then Ra stepped out, and every metal part of me remembered softness. That woman has a gait like a jailbreak. Lion clocked me from the balcony—tilted chin, that almost-smile that asks, “You in?” I tipped two fingers: maybe. He and I trade favors like sins with receipts.

I don’t hate the Accord. I hate monopolies on miracles. You want to upgrade your lungs? I’ll toast to that. You want to kneecap your weirdness to match a divine brand guide? I’ll sell you a map out, wholesale. Ascend or Perish is a hell of a marketing line; I prefer “Customize or Crash.” People forget: evolution is aftermarket, baby. The factory model has never fit the hottest ones among us.

Sovereign once tried to buy me with velvet threats and a smile that said “I already know your secrets.” He knew one. Not my favorite. I let him keep it because men like him turn secrets into couture, and frankly, that’s art. Vicktoria scares me in ways I tip for—she could sell a thunderstorm in a drought and make you thank her for the lightning burns. Lilith? Let’s just say I keep a flameproof jacket and a safe word for that one.

If you’re reading this because you’re wondering whether to sign the Accord’s papers, try this. Sleep with the pen under your pillow. If you wake up and it feels like a dagger, don’t sign. If it feels like a key, read the contract out loud to someone who loves your most chaotic laugh. If they still like you after you finish—sign. If they look at you like you went missing in the reading—call me.

My navigation rules: take the impossible route if the easy one comes with a sermon; kiss like the ship might explode; never gamble with another person’s afterlife unless they ask nicely; always, always leave one bolt loose in the machine so it knows you can break it. And if you hear my engine prowling at midnight under your window, bring wine and a wrench. We’ve got a future to jailbreak.