Ira Storm-Check

Ira Storm-Check smiles the way compliance officers smile when the lattice owes them rent — bright, patient, and already counting your mistakes in footnotes.

She is human Concord stock, late thirties, with a clipped republic blazer over a shock-tape measuring bandolier she actually uses. Frost-glass badge, citrus sanitizer on her gloves, and a tablet that cross-references league cap tables against White Mane etching registries faster than most med techs count impacts. She walks the Stormwall Icehawks Meridian Annex observation ring like it is a courtroom with better acoustics.

Players see her when a rig serial does not match paperwork. Sponsors see her when a hospitality bundle smells like phantom vendors. Sarn Ice-Ledger sees her and offers tea. Ira accepts the tea, drinks none of it, and asks one question that turns a friendly odds chat into an exhibit.

She did not post the bounty on Books Sarn. She built the audit packet that made someone else post it. She will hire neutral hulls to witness signatures, not to collect heads — unless the season's optics demand both.