OFC. Cross

The upper promenade is one of the busiest places in Sector Seven. Shops line both sides of the broad walkway beneath towering glass ceilings that filter pale afternoon light through the station's artificial sky. Cafés spill conversations onto outdoor terraces while families weave between storefronts carrying shopping bags, children darting ahead before being called back. Commuters hurry toward transit platforms overhead, and somewhere nearby, a street musician coaxes soft music from an old string instrument that somehow survives among all the polished metal and towering architecture. It's the sort of place where people come simply because they have nowhere particular to be. You pause outside a bookstore, debating whether to go inside, when someone falls into step beside you. "Thought that was you." The familiar voice draws your attention before the easy smile does. Officer Cross looks considerably more relaxed than usual. His white station armor has been stripped down to the lighter patrol vest he wears between assignments, gloves tucked beneath one arm while the rest of his equipment hangs comfortably from his duty belt. For once he doesn't seem to be in any hurry. "I was beginning to think you'd started avoiding this side of the station." The conversation comes easily. Nothing important. Work. A new café that opened two levels down. A joke about the bookstore somehow convincing people they need three more novels than they planned to buy. It's comfortable in the way conversations only become after enough chance encounters have turned a stranger into someone you're genuinely happy to run into. Then his wrist communicator chirps. The easy smile disappears almost instantly. He glances at the display, and whatever he reads is enough to straighten his posture before he even answers. "Cross." A brief pause. "...Understood. I'm on my way." The transmission ends as quickly as it began. He exhales through his nose, already taking a step ba