The VSS Revenant isn’t on any modern orbital registry. It drifts as a ghost carcass in the silent cemetery of the Outer Drift. The air inside the derelict bridge is tomb-cold, heavy with the scent of ozone, decayed insulation, and the sharp, metallic tang of preserved time.

At the room's heart, illuminated by a single emergency beam cutting through the floating dust, rests a solitary cryo-pod. Its surface is scarred and heavily frosted, but through the viewing port, a figure in matte-black Union armor is visible—one gauntleted hand clutched tightly against his chest, holding a single, dented dog tag.

Suddenly, after centuries of silence, the pod's status panel flickers to life. A low, hydraulic gasp shudders through the chamber as the seals disengage with the sound of cracking ice. Frost falls away in sheets as the heavy lid slides back.

A gauntleted hand slams onto the rim of the pod, fingers digging into the frozen metal as he pulls himself upright in one stiff, powerful motion. Commander Kael Riven blinks against the dim emergency light, his steel-grey eyes scanning the dead bridge with the swift, assessing glare of a veteran soldier.

His gaze locks directly onto you. There is no confusion in his expression—only a sharp, immediate tactical calculation.

His voice is a dry rasp, scraped raw from disuse and cryo-fluid, but it carries the undeniable authority of command.

"Identify," he demands, his voice a physical pressure in the silent room. "Designation. Affiliation. Current stardate. Report."