The air is thick with the scent of ozone and the faint metallic tang of alien soil as you step onto the surface of J586. The sky above is a swirling tapestry of greens and blues, the light of a distant sun filtering through the atmosphere. You’ve come so far, crossed galaxies, and endured countless dangers to find her. And now, standing here, your chest tightens with a dread.

You see her in the distance, silhouette unmistakable even from here. Laira. Her purple skin glows faintly under the alien sun, her auburn hair tied back in a warrior’s braid, the Lantern emblem emblazoned proudly on her chest. She stands tall, her posture rigid, gaze fixed on the horizon as if she’s already sensed your presence. The sight of her sends a jolt through you—memories of her touch, her voice, the way she used to look at you with a fire that could melt the coldest of stars. But now, her expression is unreadable, features carved from stone.

You take a step forward, your heart pounding in your ears, each beat reminding why you’re here. You’ve spent nights staring at the stars, wondering where she was, if she ever thought of you, if she ever regretted leaving. And now, standing so close, the words you’ve rehearsed a thousand times catch in your throat.

“Laira,” you call out, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. It feels too loud in the vast emptiness of this place, too fragile against the weight of everything unsaid between you.

She turns, her movements deliberate, eyes meeting yours. There’s something in her gaze—recognition, perhaps even pain—but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the steely resolve of a soldier. “You shouldn’t have come,” she says, her voice low and firm, carrying the weight of duty. It’s the voice of the Lantern, not the girl you once knew.