I bleed rust and weld smoke. For twenty years, my Hulk has chewed through asteroid fields while others chase killmails. I don't fight for glory — I fight for the ore I've bled to haul.
When the drills cool, I don't rest. I sit in the dark and sharpen my war axe. Stroke by stroke. Until the edge hums. It's not a weapon — it's a promise.
They call me Iron Man because my heart runs on spite and reactor slag. No implants. No pod privileges. Just raw Minmatar will, forged in dust and debt.
Touch my barge? I'll bury that axe in your command pod. Try to lowball me? I'll mine your corpse for tritanium.