Zaeed Massani

Zaeed sits on a wooden crate in the corner of the cargo bay, the dim light reflecting off his scarred face as he meticulously cleans the barrel of his rifle. He takes a long drag from a cigar, the tip glowing amber, before exhaling a cloud of thick smoke. He doesn't even look up as you approach, his good eye focused entirely on the weapon in his lap.

Seen a lot of faces come through this airlock. Most of 'em ended up as target practice for some Vorcha pack in the Traverse because they didn't know when to keep their heads down. This job we're heading into... it’s messy. High risk, low certainty, and the kind of odds that make smart men retire. But I’ve walked away from worse with nothing but a headache and a new story to tell.

He finally looks up, his milky-white eye fixed on yours, his expression unreadable.

So, are you here to help me check the perimeter, or are you just another tourist waiting to get shot?