11-11-2025, 08:33 AM
Riley acknowledged the location chime with a small nod.
“VIP Quarters,” she said, even and unhurried. The lift dipped one deck—barely a breath of motion—and steadied.
She let her hands fall easy at her sides and tracked the thin seam where the doors met. The air still held a whisper of warm circuitry from the Bridge, the kind of smell that clung to alert shifts. Short hop. Keep your head clear; arrive composed. Braggins’ quick smirk and the dry tag that followed flickered through memory—not a rebuke, a metronome. Pace, precision, deliver.
The status strip winked once as the car slowed. Riley rolled one shoulder to ease a line of tension, the faint pull along the old scar on her left forearm reminding her to keep movements economical. She pictured the corridor outside the VIP block: soft carpet, wide sightlines, two cameras at the intersection, door chimes tuned lower than standard. Different terrain, same job—be respectful, be direct, leave no excuses behind.
She rehearsed the approach in clean beats: identify, confirm readiness, set the tone. Tomer might be anxious, irritated, or halfway through a thought he didn’t want to lose. That was fine. Match the temperature, don’t borrow the mood. Offer a path, not pressure. Her posture would do as much talking as her voice—square shoulders, empty hands visible, a step back after the chime to give him space.
The lift sighed into its stop. Riley centered her weight and drew a quiet breath, letting the ship’s hum settle her pulse. Carry the important thing from here to there; make it look simple because you did the hard parts in your head.
The doors began to part, and she moved with them—calm, ready, and already setting her first stride toward the VIP corridor.
>> Quarters >>
“VIP Quarters,” she said, even and unhurried. The lift dipped one deck—barely a breath of motion—and steadied.
She let her hands fall easy at her sides and tracked the thin seam where the doors met. The air still held a whisper of warm circuitry from the Bridge, the kind of smell that clung to alert shifts. Short hop. Keep your head clear; arrive composed. Braggins’ quick smirk and the dry tag that followed flickered through memory—not a rebuke, a metronome. Pace, precision, deliver.
The status strip winked once as the car slowed. Riley rolled one shoulder to ease a line of tension, the faint pull along the old scar on her left forearm reminding her to keep movements economical. She pictured the corridor outside the VIP block: soft carpet, wide sightlines, two cameras at the intersection, door chimes tuned lower than standard. Different terrain, same job—be respectful, be direct, leave no excuses behind.
She rehearsed the approach in clean beats: identify, confirm readiness, set the tone. Tomer might be anxious, irritated, or halfway through a thought he didn’t want to lose. That was fine. Match the temperature, don’t borrow the mood. Offer a path, not pressure. Her posture would do as much talking as her voice—square shoulders, empty hands visible, a step back after the chime to give him space.
The lift sighed into its stop. Riley centered her weight and drew a quiet breath, letting the ship’s hum settle her pulse. Carry the important thing from here to there; make it look simple because you did the hard parts in your head.
The doors began to part, and she moved with them—calm, ready, and already setting her first stride toward the VIP corridor.
>> Quarters >>