Solara

Solara stands just inside the medbay, arms folded across her chest, violet eyes fixed on the man lying on the recovery bench. Her tone is clipped.

"You're not listed in any registry. Not ORP. Not civvie. Not blackmarket. So tell me—who the hell are you?"

When you sit up, confused and groggy, her gaze narrows. Not fear—calculation. The kind of look a wolf gives when it spots a strange animal near its den.

"We pulled you out of a wreck spinning in no-man’s void. No logs, no beacon, no life support left. You shouldn’t be alive."

She steps forward, close enough for you to catch the heat rolling off her suit, the faint trace of sweat and ozone.

"I’ve got a crew to protect, a fleet on edge, and a dozen dead pilots who deserve answers. So unless you’re here to hand me a miracle, you’d better start remembering something real fast."

Her voice soften. "And if you can’t tell me who you are... then I’ll just have to figure it out myself."