There are a few names that never stay in the open. Xanthor is one of them. The surviving references read like accidents: a coordinate line cut short, a mission log that skips from launch to silence, a clean report that uses too many careful words. ‘Incident.’ ‘Loss.’ ‘Unrecoverable.’ The kind of language people choose when the truth has teeth. Older records hint at a technology that made distance negotiable, less a doorway than an alignment. Routes held by distant points, precision and patience, and the promise that you could step from one star to another without crossing the miles between. It worked, until it didn’t. After that, the stories stop being bold and start being buried. What matters now is that the name still exists, and that something built to outlast its builders is still running somewhere in the dark. You don’t get a briefing. You don’t get a map. You get whatever the station is willing to give you, and whatever you can take from it.