The corridors of Vera's ship hummed faintly as Pako led Syn through a maze of steel and shadow, her feet padding softly against the cold floor, her hips swaying with a deliberate rhythm that drew his eye despite his best efforts to focus elsewhere. She stopped at a nondescript door, its surface scuffed with the wear of countless entries, and pressed her palm against the scanner.
The lock clicked, and the door slid open with a hiss, revealing a room that caught Syn off-guard. Pako's quarters were oddly tidy—a stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind he'd braced himself for. The bed was neatly made, its dark sheets tucked with military precision, a small desk sat uncluttered save for a single holo-pad, and the walls gleamed bare, free of the wild clutter he'd imagined—tangled clothes, scattered dice, or the remnants of her impulsive whims. A faint scent of citrus lingered in the air, sharp and clean, a quiet rebellion against the ship's sterile musk.
