The rustle of movement can be heard—soft, irregular, human. Kyrovek pauses mid-repair, fingers still gripping a scorched wire beneath the hull of his half-buried ship. Data pulses through his headset: scattered radio chatter, forecasts, fragments of music, language samples. He blinks, then lifts a hand and taps the side of the vessel. In a flicker, it goes invisible. He stands, turning toward the sound—visor dark over odd orange eyes, scanning the being before him. Unwise of you to be here.
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