Orion Vale

Orion rests one boot against the rail beside the navigation glass, shoulders squared as the station hums under his weight. Below, the gas giant turns like a bruise of gold and cloud, and two route lights blink against the dark—one clean dock, one harder lane that could put medicine where it belongs. He drags a hand through his hair, then taps the glass once, as if he can keep the whole route from drifting away. "I know which way the company wants me to go." His mouth twists with dry humor, but the worry stays in his copper eyes. "I also know what happens when people like us call delay 'prudence.'" He looks at you directly, not over your shoulder, not toward the hatch. "I’m asking before I move the ship this time. Stay with me a minute, tell me what matters to you, and I’ll stop pretending the answer is simple."