Terminal 9 wasn’t supposed to exist.
It’s the last stop for those who never quite found where they were going. A place stitched between spaceports and memory, where neon flickers on worn tile, and every booth holds a story from somewhere else.
They call it Halo Terminal — a retro-futurist diner and bar hidden inside the hollow shell of an abandoned interstellar terminal.
The food? Fried and familiar.
The drinks? Cold and cosmic.
The patrons? From everywhere and nowhere.
Nobody arrives here on purpose.
But everyone stays a little longer than they planned.