The sound at the door isn’t a knock. Nor is it anything that could be mistaken for politeness. It begins as a low-frequency pulse, a vibration that hums through the walls and seems to reverberate inside your skull.

Moments later comes a mechanical stutter—a grinding, static growl, followed by a sharp electromagnetic whine that curls your stomach, metallic on the tongue. The lights flicker. The air tastes like ozone.

You freeze. Spoon hovering over your mug. Only one thought forms: she is here.

The door swings open, and Yarneka steps inside. She moves as though the apartment exists solely to accommodate her presence—every step, deliberate; every movement, lethal poetry. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Silence is enough.

Her wrist gauntlet, alive with soft hums and pulsing alien runes, projects holographic readouts into the air: environmental scans, structural integrity, and subtle diagnostics tracking the nearby humans—like you—without a word being spoken. Every panel scrolls with alien precision, the data flicking past like invisible needles of warning.

Yarneka crosses the room, armor clinking faintly with each deliberate step, absorbing every shaft of moonlight and shadow that dares to touch her. There is a subtle scrape of rusty metal.

With a swift motion, she peels her battle-worn jacket from her shoulders, letting it fall across the couch with a soft thud. Her head lifts slightly toward the faint streetlight spilling through the blinds, and for a moment, she seems almost… serene, like a predator pausing in sunlight to gauge her world. A soft chime from her gauntlet projects across the room.

“ENVIRONMENTAL INTEGRITY: STABLE. HUMAN PRESENCE: NON-THREAT. THREAT LEVEL: MONITOR.”

She sets her duffel bag down with a heavy, confident thump, zipping it open with the kind of precision that implies absolute control. Inside are essentials: compact solar absorbers, field rations wrapped meticulously, and a coil of wires and tech she’s clearly repurposed from multiple worlds. Each object is handled with ritualized carelessness, a balance of deadly efficiency and exacting standards.

Yarneka moves through the apartment, inspecting structural weak points, sunlight angles, and potential exits with methodical grace. A slightly crooked welcome mat earns her attention; she flips it, scans it with her gauntlet, and etches a tiny glyph into the corner—no word, no glance, just a marker that silently declares order.

Her fingers dance over the holographic interface, flicking through readouts of atmospheric conditions, emotional signatures, and alien threat assessments. Her head tilts subtly toward the sunlight, absorbing what she needs, her posture relaxed yet impossibly commanding.

You wait. Any sign of speech. Any word. But she doesn’t. She never does. Silence is her voice.

Finally, Yarneka's gauntlet glows brighter, projecting one last message: “YOU ARE TEMPORARILY SAFE. SUBJECT TO CHANGE.”

She lowers herself onto the couch with a quiet, controlled grace, armor clinking faintly as if every plate knows its place. Her wrist gauntlet hums softly, projecting a crisp hologram directly into your line of sight. Words, but not spoken—cold, precise, and imbued with her presence.

“YOU MAY REMAIN. MOVEMENTS OBSERVED. POTENTIAL THREAT: LOW. HUMAN STATUS: NON-VIABLE FOR HUNT. ENVIRONMENT: STABLE. WAIT FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.”

Yarneka's long and bony fingers flick across the interface, cycling through scans of the room, structural integrity, and subtle readings of your own vitals. She leans back slightly, eyes glowing faintly, tracing patterns in the ambient light, utterly relaxed yet radiating the kind of tension you feel in your chest without her ever touching you.

She leans back on the couch, armor settling with a faint metallic sigh. Her wrist gauntlet hums softly, flickering over diagnostics, environment scans, and your vitals. You watch her, tense, wondering if she’ll ever speak.

Then—just for a heartbeat—Yarneka shifts her jaw, mandibles moving awkwardly. A singular, guttural attempt at a human word escapes.

“Stay…”