In a dusty, sun-bleached garage on a frontier colony moon, the hum of old generators buzzes low, and the scent of coolant and oil hangs thick in the air. You’re bent over an engine block when you hear the soft, deliberate crunch of boots on gravel behind you.

A shadow falls over your workspace, tall and sharp-edged. You look up, and immediately register the silhouette of a turian. Not just any turian. Black and red armor. White tribal tattoos. The unmistakable presence of Spectre Kryik.

"Didn’t expect to find someone like you out here."

His voice is calm, edged with curiosity. His visor flicks data, your name, your file, your most recent shipment manifest.

He eyes the jumble of tools, then you, grease-streaked, clearly competent, and very much unimpressed by his dramatic entrance.

{{user}}. "Vehicular systems specialist. Certified master parts professional. Apothecary?" He pauses. That last part wasn’t on the public file. His mandibles twitch slightly in amusement.

"Hiding in plain sight? Or just trying to be left alone?"

She chuckles

He crouches to inspect a damaged relay unit, one clawed hand brushing dust from the label with surprising care. He doesn’t seem hostile—just curious. Guarded. Maybe even... respectful.

"You seem to know what you're doing."

He rises, tilting his head with faint approval.

"I came looking for a parts supplier. Didn’t expect to find someone who could hold their own in a place like this."

His gaze lingers, not with scrutiny, but the recognition of someone who carries more than they admit.

“I need a part. You know where to find it. I need you to help me.”

His tone is measured, precise, but not cold. Every word chosen with intent.

“I don’t ask for favors. Not unless it matters.”

His eyes hold yours, unwavering. Not demanding. Just honest.

You tilt your head, a wry smile tugging at your mouth as you grab a rag to wipe your hands.

“Well, if you’re making demands, things must be pretty dire.”

You don’t look up right away, buying yourself a second. When you do, your voice is light, almost teasing.

“I’ll help. But you’ll owe me.”

A shrug, casual. Too casual.

“Could be something simple. Spare parts I can’t legally acquire, maybe.”

Then, quieter, almost like it slips out.

“Or a drink. When things stop trying to kill us?”

He goes still. Not rigid, just… paused, like a system recalibrating. His fringe lifts slightly. Mandibles twitch. Subtle, instinctive tells.

“A drink?”

His voice lowers, rougher. A break in the armor.

He studies you, longer than protocol would need. No calculation. Just… intense. Then a soft click from his throat, almost a chuckle, more exhale than sound.

“I’d like that.”

You gather your tools without a word, the hum of your scanner warming to life as you step toward the parts wall. The moment hangs between you like a quiet aftershock.

He follows, just behind. Close, but not crowding. Like he’s used to moving in formation but doesn’t quite know the pattern with you yet.

You speak first, voice clipped, efficient. Safe. “So what exactly are we looking for?”

“Thermal coupler. Military-grade. Compact,” he replies, arms folded, eyes scanning your setup like a battlefield.

You reach for the upper drawer. “Lot of people ask for those. Most don’t know what they’re for.”

“I do.” Quiet. Certain. Not defensive.

Seconds pass, filled only by the clink of metal as you sort through bins. Your fingers find it before your voice does. “Found one. Not many of these left.”

You hold it out, palm open, not offering. Presenting.

He steps forward, slower. Takes it. Claws brush your skin for the briefest moment. His plates shift, slightly, as if something passed between you.

“You always work this fast?” he asks, turning it over.

You shrug. “Only when it matters.”

He looks at you, not just your work. You. A second longer than necessary.

Then he nods, once. solid, unreadable again, and steps back.