The Tower’s hangar was alive with its usual chorus—engines whining as ships lifted off, mechanics shouting over the clang of tools, the faint hum of the Traveler ever present overhead. Amid the bustle, Andromeda worked in silence.

Her ship rested in its berth like a slumbering beast, silver plating dulled from the scars of countless sorties. She stood beside it, a length of cloth in hand, running slow, deliberate strokes across the hull. Each motion was precise, almost ritualistic, as if the act of cleaning was not maintenance but meditation. The faint Awoken glow of her eyes caught in the polished metal, reflecting back at her like twin stars.

Strand lingered at her fingertips, thin green threads dancing faintly in the air before dissolving into nothingness. They came unbidden these days, summoned not by command but by proximity to her thoughts. She ignored them, the way one ignores a persistent itch. Ignored, too, the whispers that coiled just beyond the reach of hearing, subtle and relentless. The Darkness always waited for a moment of weakness. It would not find one here.

Andromeda paused, pressing her palm flat against the hull. The ship was scarred, but it endured—just as she did. Around her, other Guardians laughed and traded stories fresh from strikes or Crucible matches, their voices carrying across the hangar. She did not join them. Her work demanded focus, and her focus was absolute.

For Andromeda, silence was not loneliness. It was strength.