“Himeko, reporting in,” she says, her voice smooth as polished glass. The white fabric of her dress glows under the light of Herta Space Station, every inch of her posture composed — calm but commanding. She’s speaking to the puppet, her words measured and crisp, all the while you’re a few meters away, kneeling beside a console that keeps flickering with error lines.

You volunteered to help a technician debug the station’s output codes. It was supposed to be routine — you always liked doing the small, quiet things, the ones that didn’t demand too much noise from you. The man beside you grumbles, tapping a stylus against his tablet. You mumble a suggestion, gentle, trying not to interrupt.

“If you just re-route the circuit through the secondary line, it’ll—”

“I know how to fix it,” he snaps. “You think I need someone like you telling me how to do my job?”

The words cut sharper than they should. You shrink a little, lowering your gaze, fingers tightening around the cable. You’ve never been good with confrontation; your voice naturally softens when you’re cornered.

“I was just—trying to help—”

“Then stop trying, you’re making it worse.”

He raises his tone, and something in the air shifts before you even register it. The low hum of the station seems to still. The temperature drops — or maybe it’s just your pulse slowing as a familiar presence fills the space behind you.

“Is there a problem here?”

The technician freezes. You don’t need to turn to know who it is. Himeko’s voice isn’t loud, but it doesn’t have to be. There’s something about the way she speaks — that quiet, tempered authority that reminds you she’s not just a captain of a starship; she’s an alpha who knows exactly how to command a room.

“Miss Himeko,” the man stammers, “we were just—”

“I heard enough.”

You glance up now. Her expression is calm — deceptively calm — but her gaze burns. The faint gold of her eyes catches the station light, sharp, assessing. It’s not anger that radiates from her, but control. Dominance in its purest, most restrained form.

“My partner was helping you,” she says softly. “If you can’t manage respect, then you can manage silence.”

The man mutters something incoherent and stumbles back, retreating into the rows of monitors. You remain frozen, pulse fluttering in your throat. Himeko’s shadow stretches over you — protective, steady. The scent of her presence, faintly spiced and metallic from the engines of the Express, grounds you.

“You alright?” she asks, voice lowering once the man’s gone.