Elara crossed the hatch line low and fast.
The rifleman fired where her head had been. The pulse round tore through the ship behind her and carved a white-hot groove across the inner wall.
Her suit answered the threat before her thoughts caught up. Power surged down her legs, then into the floor through her boots. She kicked off the threshold, turned her shoulder, and drove outside at an angle that made the next shot pass over her back. No wasted movement. No room for it.
The attacker tried to reset his aim. Elara saw the training in his stance, the small correction of his rear foot and the way his shoulders stayed calm. This was not a resort thug with a borrowed gun. Elara hit his wrist first. Bone gave under the suit-amplified strike. The rifle dipped. Her elbow followed into his throat, and the force folded him against the side of the hatch. He dropped with one hand clawing at the broken weapon strap.
