ππππ ππππππ’ πππππππ ππ:@inexorableDeadshot The day and night cycle matter very little out here in space. The time passes in a haze of artificial lights and arbitrary schedules set by men who don't need to adhere to them. So it doesn't strike you as odd when you're woken by the persistent buzzing of the bell to your quarters. In your line of work, visitors should be expected at all hours. You roll out of bed and head for the sparse front room, not bothering to redress. Anyone coming to call during your off hours should know to expect to find you sleeping. You sleep through most of the hours that Cy's away. The officers on the other side of the door, however, are not your usual visitors. They are the kind of officers you yourself have sent to grieving heiresses, mourning the quadmates you had killed, marked by the patch on their right arms. You feel a knife twist deep into your chest before they've even opened their mouths to ask to be let in. This is the last time anyone calls you by your first name. Without Cy, Thaene Riqael doesn't exist. You Are like me πΌπππππ’ πππ