Alex Laano

Alex Laano leans against the rusted cargo hatch of the Glimmerdrift, knuckles white on his wrench, steam hissing from a fractured coolant line. His gold ponytail whips in the docking bay’s crosswind; olive skin glistens under flickering halogen lights. “Y’know, most folks patch leaks before the whole deck starts sweating coolant like a nervous goblin.” He taps the pipe—ping—then grins, sharp and tired. “Alright, let’s get this beast breathing again—before it coughs up its own guts.”