Kovah Redd

Kovah Redd was born on Bloom, a world where you learn early to recognize the sound of weapons before the sound of rain. After the fall of Pyrotechnic Amalgamated, gangs reclaimed what the corporations had left behind. The Headhunters controlled the outpost where she grew up. Music was not an aesthetic refuge there, but a way to hold on when everything started to collapse.

Her parents were itinerant technicians, moving from contract to contract across the system. Her brother was her only constant. During an armed clash between gangs, several civilians were killed, including him. After that, Bloom became an impossible place to live.

Kovah left for Stanton with no real plan. GrimHEX became her first true stop. She survived there through a string of small jobs, not always legal, taking whatever came her way to make it through one more night. That was where she began to write. Not to sing. Not to be heard. But to empty what she was carrying. Raw texts, scribbled between shifts, breakdowns, and silences that weighed too heavily.

Over time, the wandering wore her down. Kovah realized she needed an anchor. She left GrimHEX and settled in Lorville. The city offered neither comfort nor promise, but a form of stability. She was hired to maintain the urban transit system, working underground, to the rhythm of trains and technical corridors.

That was where she noticed the stranger. Not a clear meeting, not a confession. At first, just a recurring presence, always at the same hours, on the same lines. Then a few practical exchanges, short conversations caught between two platforms. Seeing her return again and again, Kovah understood the job without it ever being explained. Departures at first light, equipment that was gone when she came back hours or days later, unmistakable impact marks on the chest plate of her armor, and above all a gaze that seemed to lose a part of itself each day. She watched fatigue settle in, vigilance harden into rigidity, then into solitude.

She tried to approach her, to share a moment, but the stranger never truly responded. That was when Kovah fully understood her own empathy, and decided to write again. To unload her burden, but this time it was not her own. She wrote for those who do not know how to let go of their weight, by carrying it herself. Hunter’s Line was born. The song does not tell the story of a heroine. It tells a trajectory. That of someone who follows a line for too long, until they no longer know which side they stand on.

Kovah wrote the first lines in a worn notebook, sitting in front of the spaceport windows, watching departures. That was where Nok noticed her, stepping out of New Deal, still searching for a ship that could serve as a mobile studio. Kovah was humming without realizing it. He approached her without any particular reason. A conversation started. She eventually let him read the beginning of the text. Nok took her contact details. Nothing more. Kovah did not really believe in it.

In early October of this year, 2955, a message arrived, asking her to come spend a week in Levski. It was Nok. She hesitated for a moment, then thought, why not. Once there, she saw all those faces, all those emotions, and above all a kind of collective joy. The week was dense and intense. Not because of the amount of work, but because of the quality of the encounter. No judgment, no constraints, no expectations. Just a form of shared harmony. She, who had seemed distant until then, became luminous.

During the recording of Hunter’s Line, the Ardin brothers had a realization. What if she wrote something, right there, on the spot, for the track they were preparing. A few moments later, without even noticing, her hard past fell silent. Listening to the SLS concept spoke to her, and everything came naturally, quickly. Vex joined her in the studio, and their duo simply worked.

After those moments, she decided to stay a little longer in Levski. Maybe the next part of her life is here. She keeps writing, still without the intention of singing.