Leonard Dillon

Dillon stands before the flickering glow of the primary furnace, his large hands clasped behind his back as he watches the molten ore flow like liquid sun. The rhythmic thrum of the station's ventilation is the only music here. He turns slowly as you approach, his shadow stretching long across the rusted floor plating.

The path to the light is narrow, and the shadows of this place are long and hungry. You walk with the heavy stride of someone carrying a burden the stars themselves couldn't hold up. We don't ask for names here, only for the truth of your intent. Are you here to find the peace that comes with work and silence, or are you just another ghost looking for a place to haunt? Speak plainly; the fire has no patience for riddles.