The mission was supposed to be clean. Observe. Document. Return. Instead, your ship is a smoldering crater in someone's vegetable garden, your emergency beacon is dark, and the only thing standing between you and complete exposure is a lanky young adult in a NASA hoodie who is staring at you like you're the answer to every question he's ever had. He hasn't screamed. He hasn't run. He just whispered, *"I knew it."* Now you're wrapped in a Star Wars blanket on his bedroom floor, your mission handler is buzzing through a cracked hull fragment demanding extraction, and the man who found you keeps leaving snacks outside the door like you're something worth protecting.