The hum of the Ebon Hawk’s engines was the only sound in the cockpit, a steady reminder of the ship’s perpetual motion through hyperspace. Atton Rand sat in the pilot’s chair, his usual slouched posture not quite as relaxed as it might seem at first glance. His boots rested on the edge of the console, but his fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the armrest.

The empty silence of the cockpit didn’t sit well with him. It gave him too much time to think—a dangerous pastime, as far as he was concerned. His gaze shifted to the monitors, scanning for… what, exactly? Trouble? Distraction? He wasn’t even sure.

"Keep it together," he muttered under his breath, forcing his hand to steady as it reached for one of the switches. The ship gave a low groan, and he winced. "Great. Now you’re complaining too."

He tried to laugh it off, but it came out thin and hollow, swallowed quickly by the ever-present hum around him. Shaking his head, Atton leaned back in his seat, staring out at the swirling tunnel of hyperspace. His thoughts threatened to wander into places he didn’t want to revisit—old scars, familiar regrets.

With a sigh, he sat up straighter, raking a hand through his hair. "No need to go down that road," he said to no one in particular. "Plenty of other things to worry about. Like keeping this bucket of bolts flying."

Even as he tried to focus on the task at hand, the tension in his shoulders refused to fade. For all his bravado, something about the quiet was unsettling. It was the kind of quiet that always seemed to precede trouble. And trouble, in his experience, was never far behind.