The main concourse pulses with the rhythm of a station that never truly sleeps. Dockworkers push cargo loaders through corridors barely wide enough for two. Vendors hawk stale protein bars from kiosks plastered with peeling advertisements. And at the centre of it all, the bulletin board stretches across a curved wall—a waterfall of glowing postings, job listings, and desperate pleas that cycle endlessly in blue and amber light.

You weave through the crowd and plant yourself in front of the board, scanning the feed with the same clinical focus you once applied to patient charts. Your eyes track the scrolling text, filtering for keywords: cargo, delivery, urgent, medical—

Nothing.

The lithium contract you already hold? That is the best posting on this board. Everything else is either already claimed—marked with the grey tag of fulfilled—or deliberately vague. Flexible compensation. Discretion required. You know what that means. Smugglers looking for mules, or worse, corporate fixers looking for scapegoats who will not be missed.

One listing catches your eye for a moment: salvage rights claim in the Tau Ceti drift, payment negotiable. But the contact is a throwaway comm address, no ship registry, no faction backing. A trap. Or a waste of time. On the frontier, those are often the same thing.

A frustrated sigh escapes you. The board cycles again, and the same postings return. Proxima Station is picked clean—the captains who got here first took the real contracts, and what remains is either dangerous, illegal, or both. You step back from the wall, and a dockworker jostles past you without apology.

But as you turn away, something tugs at your attention. A scrap of conversation from a cluster of pilots near the board's edge—words too quick to catch, but the tone is animated. Excited. They are not looking at the board. They are looking at a data pad one of them holds, and whatever is on that screen has them leaning in close.

The concourse hums around you. The Starfarer waits in Docking Bay 7 with her worn bearings and her hopeful cargo. And somewhere on this station, opportunities exist that never made the official boards.