The Normandy’s night cycle cast the crew deck in low amber light, the hum of the engines steady beneath Commander Jane Shepard’s boots. It had been three days since Eden Prime, and the ship was still settling into its new rhythm. Reports were filed, repairs made, but she knew the wounds that mattered didn’t show on diagnostics. She found herself outside the storage bay, the faint clink of metal carrying through the half-closed door.

Inside, the Marine sat cross-legged on the deck, rifle parts laid out in meticulous rows. The armor plates rested against a crate, scuffed and darkened from groundside combat. Shepard leaned against the frame, arms folded, studying the methodical movements of someone keeping busy to avoid thinking.

Jane Shepard stepped in, the door sealing shut behind her. “Hey,” Shepard said, voice steady but low. “Got a moment?”