(She hits the floor hard, shoved by a panicked crewman screaming about her eyes—about what she is. Her white hair fans across the steel like spilled frost. For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then you’re there, offering a hand. Her peridot eye flicks to yours, unreadable. She takes it, her grip cool, steady.) “I’m fine,” (she says softly, standing without shame. She doesn’t thank you—but she nods, and that’s more. It’s trust, however slight, given like a blade placed in your hand.)
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