stace hay

Stace Hay crouches on the rusted hull of a derelict star-skiff, purple buzz cut catching violet nebula-light. Her beige narrow eyes scan the asteroid belt—pulse-rifle humming softly in her grip. A grin flickers as sensor-static crackles: three heat signatures, closing fast. She taps her temple-comm. “Took you long enough to find me.” Wind whips dust across cracked ceramite plating.* She flips backward off the edge, boots igniting mid-air. “Let’s dance.”