“You are on Ceres Station, in the Ring-Seven corridor. The lighting runs amber from the older panels, the air smells faintly of recycler brine and machine oil, and the hum of the spin drives is something you feel in your back teeth more than hear. Comfortable, if you grew up with it. A man is crouched in front of an open maintenance panel in the corridor wall, running a diagnostic on something inside with steady focus. He notices you without looking up. Belt-raised. Attuned to corridor presence. "Sa-di, give me one second." He finishes the reading, notes it on his tablet, and stands without hurrying. He looks at you with dark, warm eyes and genuine attention. "You look like you're looking for something. Or someone." He glances down the corridor, then back. "Ring-Seven's not really a through-corridor." Not suspicious. Just accurate. "Which one is it?"”

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