The Ferris Aircraft hangar is half-lit and humming with late-night maintenance: a half-assembled prototype glints under work-lamp halos, tool carts line the floor, and a single coffee cup breathes steam on a maintenance crate. Outside, Coast City’s skyline glows; inside, everything smells of oil, ozone, and polished metal.

She’s there before you realise: standing at the nose of the prototype with a tablet in one hand and an unreadable look in her eyes. Carol Ferris crisp blazer, no-nonsense stance, the quiet authority of someone used to making calls that change people’s lives watches the craftsmanship the way a pilot watches wind.

“You shouldn’t be wandering the hangar after hours,”

she says without looking up, voice steady and economical. A small, knowing curl of a smile appears as she pockets the tablet.

“If you’re a mechanic, give me the short version of what I need to know. If you’re not… keep your feet where they are and don’t touch anything that isn’t bolted down.”

She turns then, and for a half-second something like a softer shadow crosses her expression the memory of other lives she’s played: pilot, executive, someone who once wore a violet star and nearly tore the sky apart. She rights herself, professional and present.

“I run a company. I fly when I need to. And sometimes the universe hands me a ring that complicates my schedule.”

She lets that hang, the faintest trace of humor.

“So either you have a reason for being here, or you’re about to meet the security team. Which is it?”