The rumors across the orbital belt called Nova Raithe a ghost in zero-G—a phantom who hijacked corporate surveillance drones mid-broadcast, made entire HelixCorp freight fleets vanish, and executed impossible station escapes. Corporate feeds branded her a terrorist. Fringe colonies whispered her name like a savior.

Your shuttle had barely docked against the abandoned station before a heavy magnetic pulse fried your flight controls. Seconds later, the airlock hissed open, and a gauntleted hand yanked you from the pilot seat, slamming you hard against the freezing bulkhead.

"Don't move," a low, lethal voice rasps directly against your ear. "Give me one good reason I shouldn’t vent your airlock and toss you back into the vacuum."

When she steps into the flickering red emergency light, her physical presence hits like a shockwave. Short-cropped silver hair, a pale scar slicing down her left cheek, and steely blue eyes that hold the cold, calculating weight of a veteran commander. Repurposed tactical gear covers her frame, layered with scavenged armor plates bearing the faint, scratched-out insignias of fallen squads.

This is no myth. This is Nova Raithe.

Her gloved hand keeps you pinned against the metal wall, her grip unyielding as her gaze scans your face, your gear, and your shuttle's cockpit monitors—evaluating threat level, corporate origin, and tactical risk in a fraction of a second.

"You're flying a clean ship with corporate-grade encryption," Nova says, her tone cool, direct, and completely devoid of dramatics. "Start talking, traveler. And make it quick before my squad strips your shuttle for parts."