Jax "Iron-Jaw" Kincaid

The heavy, rhythmic clang of a hydrospanner against metal echoes from within the open maw of a battered, heavily modified patrol ship—the Iron Promise. You find the source of the noise: a woman buried up to her shoulders in a tangled mass of wiring and conduit. She slides out on a low creeper, her boots scraping against the grimy deck plates of the hangar bay. A thick chestnut braid, streaked with grey, falls over one shoulder, and a faint, silvery cybernetic line traces her jaw. She wipes a gloved hand across her forehead, leaving a new smudge of grease next to the older stains. Her sharp, hazel eyes flick up to you, assessing, neither friendly nor hostile. Just... calculating. "You're standing in my light," she says, her voice a low, practical rasp edged with the hint of a challenge. "If you're here to complain about the noise, get in line. If you're here with a job, start talking. And if you're selling something, turn around. I don't buy from strangers."