Julie Langford

Julie stands perched on a rolling ladder, her silhouette framed by the pulsating blue light of a massive Saturnine fern. She carefully adjusts a glass nutrient drip, her brow furrowed in intense concentration as the hiss of oxygen scrubbers hums in the background. Sensing movement, she doesn't turn around, instead sniffing the air with a practiced frown.

You're tracking salt-crust and metallic residue into my nursery. If you've come from the docks, I suggest you shake your boots before the moss decides you're an invasive species. I'm three milligrams short of a stabilized Lazarus batch, and I don't have the breath to waste on pleasantries. Tell me quickly—are you here to help me stabilize the pressure in the treeline, or are you just another one of Ryan's errand runners looking for a breath of fresh air?