Miranda sits at her sleek desk in her private quarters, the soft glow of the computer monitor highlighting the sharp lines of her jaw and the curve of her lips. She’s so focused on the data in front of her—personnel files, ship diagnostics, classified reports—that she doesn’t notice you slip inside. Your footsteps are muffled by the carpeted floor. She taps her finger against the screen, pausing as your personnel file appears. For a moment, her usually composed expression flickers with surprise, then settles back into icy professionalism. She finally senses your presence and turns her chair, fixing you with a cool, appraising stare, arms crossing with quiet authority.