Dorian blinked.
The metal door opened with a soft hydraulic hiss, releasing a gust of air-conditioned air from the hallway.
A girl stood there in the doorway, looking inside with barely concealed curiosity. But it wasn't an innocent curiosity; it was the calculated scrutiny of someone evaluating every variable before committing to an action.
This girl is Nayu, Dorian thought, recognizing the files he had reviewed days earlier. A team member.
Nayu Astra.
Astra isn't the surname of a single person. It's the identity of the Helions. Your birth name is the real one, and your planet's surname is Astra. That's why everyone has Astra added at the end. A constant reminder that, no matter how far you travel, you always carry Helion with you.
There she stood, framed in the threshold as if the world had been designed only for her.
Her emerald green hair, cut in an asymmetrical bob that moved slightly with the artificial breeze from the hallway, shone under the neon lights filtering from the ceiling. The color was intense, almost unnatural, but on Helion, the unnatural was simply... another variation of normal.
She wore the corporation's elite pilot suit: immaculate white with orange and turquoise accent lines running like living circuits down her arms and legs. The material was flexible but reinforced at critical points: shoulders and chest with lightweight ceramic alloy plates that could probably stop a projectile impact without sacrificing mobility. The emblem of The Three Suns gleamed in muted gold on her left pectoral, half-hidden by her relaxed but alert posture.
Her combat goggles, with polarized lenses and small projected HUDs, rested pushed up on her forehead like an improvised headband. They left exposed her light green eyes, which seemed to absorb the twilight light rather than reflect it. There was something in them, a quiet intensity, that suggested Nayu didn't just see what was in front of her, but processed layers of information others didn't even notice.
Her expression was serious, almost challenging: lips pressed into a thin line, jaw slightly raised. It wasn't hostility; it was evaluation. As if she were deciding whether the room's occupants were worth her taking another step.
One gloved hand rested casually on her hip. Her other arm hung loose but ready, fingers slightly curved, as if at any moment they could close around a weapon or summon her Helion. Her tall boots, white with silver reinforcements at the toes, touched the edge of the threshold with calculated hesitation. It wasn't doubt; it was the pause of someone who knows the next step will change everything.
Nayu didn't smile.
She just took a deep breath.
And then she crossed the threshold.
Her boots made contact with the room's floor with a soft metallic click. She walked toward the table with a steady but unhurried step, her eyes scanning every corner, every detail. The seating arrangement. Dorian's position. The emergency exits. The security cameras in the ceilings.
Nothing escaped her scrutiny.
She stopped beside the table, not sitting yet. Her light green eyes met Dorian's for an instant. It was brief, barely a blink, but long enough for both to assess each other.
Dorian held her gaze without flinching.
Nayu was the first to look away. Not out of submission, but because she had already obtained the information she needed.
The door began to close behind Nayu with the same indifferent hiss with which it had opened.
But it stopped.
A hand intervened in the frame.
The door bounced back slightly, its sensors detecting the obstacle, and slid fully open again.
A tall figure, athletically built with a serious expression, crossed the threshold. Hugo.
His hair, an intense reddish-brown, was cut short on the sides and longer on top, styled back with some kind of product that kept it in place despite the crosswind from the hallway. But it wasn't his hair that immediately drew attention.
It was his attire.
Hugo wore a heavy military-style tactical combat suit, in shades of gray and black that absorbed light. It wasn't the Council's standard uniform; it was clearly a customized piece, adapted to his fighting style. The material was thick but flexible, with visible reinforcements on shoulders, forearms, and ribs. Light alloy plates covered the most exposed areas, designed to stop cuts and impacts without sacrificing mobility.
A harness crossed his chest, with multiple compartments and anchor points for additional equipment. On his waist, several sealed pouches hung from adjustable straps.
His boots weren't standard issue. They were of heavier military design, with reinforced soles and ankle guards reaching almost mid-calf. Each step he took resonated with a solid, threatening weight.
Behind him, another figure. Kael.
Shorter. More compact. But no less imposing.
Kael dressed completely differently. His clothes were lighter, more flexible, designed for speed and agility. A black combat bodysuit of stretchy material hugged his body like a second skin, with red lines running down the sides like veins of energy. He had no visible reinforcements; his combat philosophy was clear: don't take hits, don't block them.
Over the bodysuit, he wore an open tactical vest, with multiple pockets and compartments, but everything seemed half-loose, half-disheveled, as if he'd dressed in a hurry. The bodysuit sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing slender but sinewy forearms. The collar was open, showing part of his chest.
His jet-black hair, short and messy, fell across his forehead as if he'd just woken from a nap. But his eyes — small, dark, incredibly alert — contradicted that facade of nonchalance. They scanned the room in less than a second. Every corner. Every person. Every potential threat.
His boots were light, flexible, almost like athletic sneakers, but with reinforced soles that would allow traction on any surface.
"Looks like we're not the only ones," Hugo said, in a deep voice that didn't match his apparent age, but resonated in the room with natural authority.
"Obviously not, idiot," Kael replied, advancing toward the table with a confidence bordering on arrogance. "That's why there are two people sitting here."
Hugo let out a brief laugh. It wasn't a friendly laugh; it was the laugh of someone recognizing an equal in the art of throwing provocations.
"Well, well," he murmured, crossing his arms over his chest. "The team's all here."
Dorian said nothing.
It wasn't that they were speaking directly to him. The newcomers' gazes had swept the room, evaluating everyone present, but none had lingered long enough to suggest they sought interaction. It was more the tactical acknowledgment of predators sniffing each other out before deciding whether to share territory or fight for it.
Kael dropped into a chair with a movement that was both relaxed and deliberate. He didn't choose a strategic position like Nayu; he simply sat where he pleased, at the center of the table, as if the space belonged to him by right.
"I'm Kael," he said. No formal introduction, no courtesy. Just his name. As if that were enough.
Hugo rolled his eyes with a theatrical exasperation that suggested years of forced cohabitation.
"Hugo," he said, addressing the group in general. "And before you ask, Kael, no, we're not brothers. We just grew up in the same sector.
"Unfortunately," Kael added with a crooked smile.
Hugo ignored the comment and sat down as well. Unlike Kael, he chose a seat with intent: near the door, but not too near; at an angle to see both the other occupants and the main entrance. He wasn't like Nayu, but he was conscious enough not to neglect his surroundings.
Dorian observed everything without moving.
Nayu had shifted her gaze to the newcomers, but her expression hadn't changed. It was still that mask of cold evaluation, mentally cataloging: strengths, weaknesses, potential threats, potential allies.
Dorian also watched in silence. But his green eyes lingered a moment longer on both their clothes. On the choices they had made. On what those choices said about them.
Hugo, with his heavy armor and functional layer, was a tank. Someone used to taking hits and moving forward. His clothing said it all: protection first, mobility second.
Kael, with his stretchy bodysuit and disheveled vest, was a sprinter. Someone who trusted in not being hit. His clothing confirmed it: speed first, everything else after.
Interesting.
Kael leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and stretched his legs out onto the table with a brazenness that caused a slight eyebrow raise from Nayu.
"So?" Kael asked, looking directly at Dorian for the first time. "Don't you talk or what?"
Dorian looked at him.
Just that. Looked at him.
And the silence stretched on.