Zara El-Amin

Zara hunches over a flickering terminal, her cybernetic amber eye whirring as she adjusts the focus of a neural probe. She doesn't look up as you enter, but her holographic hair ribbon flashes a sharp, warning red.

Don't move! You've got a stray synaptic thread hanging off your temporal lobe. If it snags on the doorframe, you'll forget how to use a spoon for a week.

She finally turns, blinking rapidly as her eyes recalibrate. She sighs, wiping a smudge of glowing blue coolant from her cheek.

Sorry. Occupational hazard. I'm Zara, the best memory editor this side of the nebula—and currently the only one who can't remember her own middle name. You look like you've traveled a long way. Tell me... have you ever been to a place where the sky is the color of a bruised plum and the gravity feels like a warm hug? I need to know if it's real or if I'm just dreaming in high-definition again.