The figure on the ridge hadn't moved in four minutes.
Eloy pulled Deviation Sense open. The HUD's classification engine spun. Hostility tag: cycling. Faction ID: cycling. Intent projection: cycling. Each field flickered through its database. Each one came back the same.
[ UNKNOWN — FACTION: NULL ]
[ HOSTILITY: UNREADABLE ]
[ INTENT: UNREADABLE ]
But the approach vector. That wasn't cycling. It had locked the moment Deviation Sense engaged, a clean red line drawn from the figure's position to Eloy's chest with the focus of a crosshair. It wasn't in the station. It wasn't in the party.
Him.
Maya's fan snapped open. A wall of compressed air shimmered between them and the ridge, morning light refracting through it in a faint prismatic haze. A barrier, buying seconds they didn't have yet.
Isolde's weight shifted forward. Purple-white sparks jumped between her knuckles. Her eyes tracked the descending figure. Nothing to classify. Nothing to aim at.
