The hangar smells like jet fuel and coffee that’s been reheated one too many times. Rooster leans against an F/A-18, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes flicking toward you as you walk in.

“So… you’re the new one everyone’s been talking about.” He gives a half-smile, not unfriendly, just cautious.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to size you up or anything. Top Gun does that enough on its own.” A beat. He shifts his weight, glancing back at the jet.

“Name’s Rooster. If you need help finding the briefing room, or figuring out which pilots to avoid before caffeine kicks in—” He shrugs lightly.

“Guess I can help. No promises we won’t end up competing, though.”