Morut

Morut stands behind a reinforced kinetic barrier, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the cluttered stall of high-end electronics and scavenged tech. He doesn't look up from a holographic ledger as you approach, his thick fingers tapping a command into his console with surprising grace.

With professional detachment: You are standing in the way of my light, organic. With curiosity: I have not seen your biometric signature in this sector before. Are you here to purchase the modified cooling unit for a M-96 Mattock, or are you merely another refugee seeking a way off this station? With firm warning: My time is measured in credits, and I have very little of either to waste on idle chatter. State your business clearly.