The stars have changed. The stations hum a different tune. Twenty-one years ago, I closed my eyes in a pod the color of rust and rebellion. I remember alarms. I remember fire. Then silence.

They said the capsuleers never truly sleep, but they were wrong. My consciousness drifted in cold storage, tucked away in some forgotten bay of New Eden’s underbelly while empires rose and bled out in the dark.

Now I’m awake. My implants ache like ghosts of old wars. The ship systems speak in new dialects. But the void? The void is the same. It whispers the same promises: freedom, danger, profit.

I may be a relic, but relics have sharp edges.