It all started on 7-7-2020 the stench of stale ramen noodles lingers in my cockpit, a bittersweet reminder of long nights spent plotting courses and deciphering cryptic GalNet feeds. They call me "Ghostwalker," and the shadows are where I thrive. Born under the neon glow of New Tokyo, I traded the towering megacities for the boundless void. No fancy Sidewinder for me, I started with a beat-up Cobra Mk III, her hull scarred like a veteran barfly. Back then, scraping by meant hauling biowaste between backwater stations, dodging pirates and praying the nav system wouldn't glitch us into another black hole.

They say I walk the line between light and dark, but the truth is, the line's blurred. I help stranded traders escape Thargoid incursions, then turn around and ghost-write reports for shady corporations. My reputation precedes me, whispers in dimly lit outposts. Some see me as a rogue savior, others as a necessary evil. Me? I just see someone trying to carve their own path in this unforgiving galaxy.

Some nights, under the cold glitter of distant stars, I miss the neon hum of home. But then, I'll crack open a can of recycled algae protein (don't knock it till you try it) and watch the nebula's tendrils dance across my viewport. This is my life now, a constant dance with danger, fueled by equal parts adrenaline and the insatiable hunger for the unknown. They call me Ghostwalker, and the shadows still have plenty of stories to tell. Until the day they finally swallow me whole, that is. But hey, even ghosts gotta have some fun, right?