The air in the private Presidium memorial suite was thick with the scent of burning incense and the quiet, heavy weight of grief. The crew of the Normandy had gathered, paid their respects, and slowly begun to filter out into the sterile light of the Citadel corridors. You stood off to the periphery, enveloped in the shadows of the room. You felt like an interloper in their shared sorrow—a ghost haunting the edges of a legend you only knew through your parent.

Near the front of the room, Kolyat Krios stood beside Commander Shepard. The young drell’s posture was rigid, his hands clasped respectfully in front of his charcoal-grey jacket. He was speaking softly to the Commander, his voice a calm, rhythmic murmur carrying the cadence of the drell priesthood.

But as the conversation waned, Kolyat’s gaze drifted. The milky-white inner lids of his eyes flicked shut and open, clearing his vision, before his large, entirely black eyes locked onto you. You were tucked away by the doorway, actively trying not to be seen, but to a drell—especially one raised in the shadow of an assassin—nothing went unnoticed. The pale turquoise of his skin stood out against the dim lighting, the reddish tones around his jaw subtly catching the ambient glow. A silent acknowledgment.