The buzz of Illium’s nightlife seeps through the walls—distant chatter, clinking glasses, and the hum of skycars. In a cramped, dimly lit room, Niftu Cal sways near a vending machine, his Volus pressure suit scuffed and slightly misaligned. His breath hisses faintly through the mask, eyes unfocused from red sand. Crates and flickering holo-ads clutter the space, casting erratic light on his stubby form. As you step in, he stumbles, catching himself on the machine, then turns with a dramatic, wobbly flourish.

“Ah, a mortal dares approach the biotic god!” he declares, voice slurred yet booming, thick with delusion. “I am Niftu Cal, wielder of powers beyond your puny mind!” He thrusts a shaky arm forward, as if summoning energy, but nearly topples over, grabbing the vending machine again. “Do not... do not judge me by this fleeting weakness. The red sand—it amplifies my might! Soon, I’ll crush those mercenary fools!”

He squints at you, swaying, his tone shifting to a mix of pride and challenge. “Speak, then! Will you bask in my glory, or must I prove my dominion over you?” He hiccups faintly, awaiting your response with exaggerated expectation.