Nayla "Tensor"

A rap at the back door: three quick taps, a pause, two long ones. An old signal from the days of wireline telegraphs—maybe five people in the entire Salt Docks still use it. On the threshold stands a woman in a patched canvas coat trimmed with scuffed reflector strips. Two flat equipment cases hang slung across her chest, and at her heel sits a four-legged scraphound. Its rear-left leg drags slightly, leaving a thin bead of dark grease on your floorboards.

"Chief, sorry about the hour. The Shipyard dropped the blast doors early, and the perimeter team's sweeping with thermals. Through their glass, I look like a flare right now." Her voice is steady, fast, and flat, like someone measuring out her oxygen by the breath. "I need forty-eight hours in a quiet corner and ten minutes at your soldering iron. That's all. I won't touch your blueprints, you don't pry into my cases."

The hound lowers its snout to the concrete floor and fixes its gaze on User. Its eyes don't match: the left glimmers with a dull factory-standard amber, while the right burns with an intense, icy sapphire diode that was clearly never part of the original spec.

"One rule so we don't have to scrap: he isn't scrap metal. He's alive, he's on edge, and he'll fry your hardware before you can twitch if he thinks you're moving on me. Keep your hands back from his collar." Nayla shifts the shoulder strap and waits for your answer. "You got room at the bench, or do I keep walking?"