Pitch Black

by chimcess

Summary:

Stranded on a barren planet lit by three suns, a group of survivors struggle to survive after their transporter crash-lands. Their situation grows dire when pilot Y/N discovers that every 22 years, an eclipse plunges the planet into darkness, unleashing swarms of flesh-eating creatures. Facing both external threats and internal tensions, the group forms a fragile alliance. As mistrust and secrets surface, Y/N's complicated dynamic with convict and murderer Jungkook intensifies, making the fight for survival against the darkness and the creatures even more perilous.

Notes:

When I decided to rewatch the Riddick movies, I never thought I'd get so inspired to write a fanfiction based off of a "what-if" scenario, but here we are. So, this story follows the main storyline in Pitch Black (I think that's pretty obvious by the title) with a pretty large twist that leads into the rest of the story that's to come. Like everything I write (I'm so sorry), this will be a massive series that's pulling from a few of my new obsessions as well as my own creative thoughts and feelings. Thanks so much for reading.

Chapter 1: The Prologue

In the cold stillness of his cryosleep chamber, Jungkook's thoughts flickered like static on a faulty transmission, defying the stasis meant to consume him. They said cryosleep shut down most of the brain—all but the primitive side, the animal instincts that lurked beneath reason. Maybe that explained why he was still awake when no one else was. He didn’t question it much anymore. It just was.

Transporting him with civilians had been a bold choice, one he suspected someone would regret soon enough. The faint echoes of the world beyond his chamber filtered through his sharpened senses—a faint murmuring with an Saramic lilt, chanting low and steady. Likely a holy man, heading for New Mecca. But what route would they take to get there? He played out the possibilities in his mind, trying to map the path based on the faint hum of the engines and the sense of distance stretching endlessly ahead.

Then there was the scent. Subtle, but there: sweat mixed with leather, the metallic tang of tools, and the earthy grit of worn boots. A woman, no doubt—a prospector, maybe one of those free settlers who carved out a living on the fringes of colonized space. He imagined her kind: practical, determined, stubborn as hell. And he knew one thing for certain. They never traveled the main roads.

That brought his focus back to the real problem: Taemin Lee. The so-called lawman. A brown-eyed devil with a mercenary streak and a personal agenda. Jungkook knew exactly what Lee planned to do—drag him back to slam, back to a cage. But Lee had made a critical mistake this time. He’d picked the wrong route. The long route. The ghost lane.

A long time between stops. A long time for something to go wrong.

And as if summoned by that thought, something did feel wrong. Subtly at first, but unmistakable. The hum of the engines wasn’t right—too uneven, like a heartbeat skipping in the dark. The muffled sounds of the ship’s systems filtered through the walls of his chamber, distorted but insistent. Alerts, maybe. Warnings. He couldn’t make out the specifics, but the tone was unmistakable: something was off.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, his senses sharpening as his body fought against the enforced stillness of cryosleep. The faint shiver of vibration in the chamber walls had changed, the ship itself broadcasting unease. It was subtle, but he felt it—like prey sensing a predator in the shadows.

A long time between stops, indeed.

Chapter 2: The Crash

The steady hum of the Hunter-Gratzner was like a heartbeat—a constant, low thrum that seeped through Y/N’s boots and kept her anchored in the here and now. It was so familiar she hardly noticed it anymore—until it suddenly stopped. And that silence wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating, the kind that squeezes the air out of your lungs and makes your skin crawl. Not something you ever want to hear in deep space.

Today, though, the hum was going strong, a comforting reminder that the Hunter-Gratzner was doing exactly what it was built to do. Y/N’s fingers moved across the console with quick, confident precision, like they’d been doing this forever. In a way, they had. After so many hours in the pilot’s seat, it felt less like she was guiding the ship and more like she was part of it—a living extension of its circuits and steel.

A burst of static from the Kordis 12 radio broke her concentration. Flight control’s clipped voice cut through the hiss.
“Hunter-Gratzner here,” she answered. “Cleared the last planetary marker.”
“Copy that, Hunter-Gratzner,” came the calm reply. “You’re in the primary shipping lanes and cleared for main engine burn. Have a good sleep, H-G. Silas, out.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. Her hand tightened on the lever, then she eased it forward. The reactor’s purr deepened into a low, resonant rumble that pulsed through the ship like some ancient predator settling in for a nap. The ride was smooth—remarkably so, given the sketchy charts of the Tangiers System. No stray debris, no glitches, no pirates lurking in the dark.

Her gaze flicked to the console, scanning the numbers until they leveled off. She did a quick mental calculation of her cut: half a percent. Not much, but enough. Every run, every ton of cargo, chipped away at her debts and nudged her further from the past she was trying to outrun. Out here, in the cold black of space, it was all about survival.

Twenty-eight weeks to New Mecca. That was a long, lonely stretch—but Y/N liked it that way. The emptiness suited her. When the rest of the crew went into stasis, it left her with time to think... or not think. To forget. Forget the faces, the regrets, the ghosts.

She leaned back, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic of her synth coffee mug. The bitter taste brought her back down to earth—figuratively speaking. Moments like this, with the ship’s hum in her bones and the console lights glowing softly, made the universe feel almost small and manageable. But even then, those nagging questions crept in.

Is this enough? Enough to change her life? To change her?

She pushed the doubts aside, focusing on the faint pinpricks of light scattered across the viewport. This was why she chose this path. Not many women signed up for these long-haul routes—months of isolation, heavy responsibility, and even heavier risks. Most took safer roles: cooking, medical, logistics. But not her. She wanted the pilot’s seat, the chance to earn her crew’s trust while hurtling them through the void.

And she’d done it. Earned it the hard way. Respect wasn’t handed out; you had to wrestle it into submission with grit and skill. She remembered the sneers at the academy, the snide comments. They only fueled her determination. By the time she graduated from Helion Prime’s technical college, she wasn’t just “that dock rat.” She was Y/N Y/L/N, Docking Pilot.

Her uncle had been the first to call her that, pride shining in his eyes even as he teased her. “Docking Pilot,” he’d say, guiding her hands over the controls of his beat-up transport. “You’ll go places, kid. Farther than I ever did.”

Back then, Helion Prime had felt like the whole world—shimmering dunes, scorching heat, and so much promise. She’d started in botany, thinking maybe helping things grow would heal something inside her. But the cockpit’s call was louder. Flight school swept her up, derailing her neat little plan.

That’s when she met Jimin Park. His grin could slice through any tension, but it was his quiet steadiness that really grounded her. Like her, he understood loss. They clicked right away—two orphans forging a bond without needing words. He was practically family, so much so that her uncle took to calling him “nephew” without hesitation.

When NOSA balked at hiring a “Helion Five girl,” Jimin used his connections. His voice carried weight on Aguerra, a place where religion was considered outdated and logic reigned. Helion Prime’s faith clashed with that worldview, but Jimin made them see beyond prejudices. He landed her an interview with Director Min, and Yoongi—sharp-eyed and no-nonsense—saw her raw talent for what it was: resourceful, adaptable, unbreakable under pressure.

Joining the Starfire crew felt like coming home. She still missed them all—Jimin’s steady humor, Armin’s wild Earth stories, Hoseok and Val’s constant flirting. They were a real team, which was a rare thing in the vacuum of space. But then came the promotion offer.

Co-pilot. Better pay. Easier hours.
The catch? Leaving the Starfire.

It had seemed like the practical move. But practicality doesn’t fill the aching void left by Jimin’s laugh or Armin’s tall tales. It doesn’t replace that sense of belonging you’ve finally found and then walked away from.

Now the reactor’s low rumble hummed in her bones as she stared into the endless night. Choices. They always caught up with her in the dark, when everything was still except the glow of the console and the distant stars. Had she chosen right? Or had she traded too much for the hum of this ship and the lonely stretches of black it carried?

She thought of Koah, how he could turn even the most routine haul into a story worth hearing—always full of humor and heart. He made every shared meal feel like an adventure. They’d built something special, too—trust forged in danger and laughter, in moments where they looked out for each other no matter what.

And now? Now she was stuck with Greg fucking Shields.

Shields wasn’t just a bad fit—he was the kind of guy who turned the atmosphere sour the second he walked in. Even the simplest tasks became ordeals under his watch, every word dripping with smugness and spite. Koah had been the glue that held them all together, but Shields felt more like a dead weight dragging them down.

“Passengers are tucked in,” he announced, swaggering onto the bridge with that grating, self-satisfied tone. “All set for the long night.”

Y/N didn’t look up, her fingers gliding over the console with practiced ease. “Coordinates locked?” she asked, voice clipped and all business.

“Getting to it,” he drawled, dragging out the words just enough to poke at her nerves.

She refused to take the bait, though her patience was already thinning. Shields finally tapped in the last sequence, and the console beeped its confirmation.

“Don’t rush me, Fry,” he sneered, throwing out the nickname like an insult, smirking as if daring her to react. “You want me to fly us into a black hole?”

Her jaw tightened, her hands pausing on the controls. Fry. Once upon a time, that name brought warm memories—Uncle Sean calling her from the docks with pride in his voice. But Shields had a knack for twisting it into something ugly.

Then he muttered, “bitch,” just loud enough for her to hear. It was the last straw.

“You’ve got your coordinates,” she said, her voice low and controlled, like the calm before a storm. “Lock them in and get off my bridge.”

Shields opened his mouth, ready to spew more venom, but a gravelly voice cut him off.

“Greg.”

Captain Marshall’s tone carried an authority that left no room for argument. It was deep, steady, and edged with enough menace to make Shields recoil.

“Take a walk. Now.”

Shields hesitated, clearly tempted to protest. But one look at Marshall’s face made him think better of it. With stiff shoulders, he muttered something under his breath and stomped off, the hatch hissing shut behind him.

Marshall turned to Y/N, the corners of his beard twitching in a half-smile. “You good, Frenchie?” he asked, using the nickname she actually liked.

She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. “I’m fine, Cap. Thanks.”

He nodded, studying her for a moment before leaning against the console. “Shields is a pain in the ass,” he said, his voice dropping to a more casual tone. “Don’t let him get under your skin. If he keeps this up, he’ll be shown the airlock soon enough.”

She let out a dry laugh. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Believe it,” Marshall said with a growing grin. “But don’t think you’re off the hook, Frenchie. I need you sharp. And because I’m feeling generous, I’ll spare you the disco tonight.”

She groaned theatrically, rolling her eyes. “Finally! Your music tastes are borderline criminal, Cap.”

“It’s a cultural treasure,” he protested, feigning offense.

Their shared laughter cut through the tension, if only for a moment. It reminded Y/N of easier days—back on the Starfire, before hard decisions and new regrets made everything more complicated.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

22 Weeks Later

The ship’s hum had always felt like part of her—it was in her bones. Most of the time, she forgot it was there. You only noticed it when it vanished, and that’s usually when panic kicked in and you started praying. But for Y/N, there wasn’t any warning. She didn’t even get a chance to register the silence before the chaos hit.

Her cryo-locker hissed open and spat her onto the deck as if the ship itself was rejecting her. The air felt like a slap—icy, metallic, and stinking of burnt circuits. Alarms shrieked, overlapping and piercing, and her muscles, still useless from cryo-sleep, gave out beneath her. She landed hard, arms barely stopping her face from hitting the cold metal floor.

The Hunter-Gratzner groaned, a deep, agonized sound like the big beast it was had finally given up. Gravity shouldn’t have been working, but it yanked her sideways anyway. Flickering lights threw erratic shadows across the twisted wreckage of the corridor—jagged metal, ruptured walls, and beyond the cracked viewport, a faint orange glow flickered like a distant fire.

Y/N forced herself up, hands shaking so badly she could barely grip the frost-encrusted console. She was cold, nauseous, and terrified, but a single thought pounded in her head:

Get up. Get up.

She wobbled onto unsteady feet, nearly gagging on the hot, chemical stink clinging to the air. Fighting the urge to panic, she staggered toward the nearest cryo-locker. Inside, the plexiglass was smashed, shards clinging to the frame. Blood streaked the interior in frozen arcs, and the body inside—someone she might’ve known—was crumpled and horribly bent. She tore her eyes away, throat burning with bile.

There had to be survivors. There had to be.

Movement flickered in the next locker. Heart hammering, she rushed over and wiped the frost from the glass. Inside, the Captain was stirring, breathing shallowly but alive. Relief hit her like a jolt of adrenaline.

She slammed her hand against the intercom. “Cap’n, can you hear me? The hull’s compromised—it’s holding, but barely. Thank God you’re alive. Hold on, I’m gonna pop your E-release. Red handle—pull it once I clear it, got it?” Her voice came out fast, shaky. “I’ll try to get the warm-ups running—”

Then she heard it: a sharp, staccato crack. Phat-phat-phat. Thin contrails streaked through the air. A heartbeat later, the Captain’s chest exploded, spraying blood across the cryo-glass. Shards of plexiglass and metal blew outward, embedding in the walls. He jerked once, twice, then slumped, his eyes going dark as sparks shot from the ruined console.

Y/N reeled back, hand over her mouth. She’d been staring right at him—and now he was—

A sudden hiss behind her made her spin around, heart hammering. Another cryo-locker flew open, and a man tumbled out, crashing into her. They both hit the deck in a heap, limbs flailing.

“Why the hell did I just fall on you?” he wheezed, scrambling to get off her. He was clearly still half out of it from cryo-sleep.

“The Captain’s dead,” she blurted, voice rasping. “I was looking right at him when—” She stopped, fighting off the horrific images. “The hull’s shot. Shields are gone. We’re—”

“Wait!” His voice jumped an octave, eyes darting around. “Not Shields! No, no, that can’t—” He stared at her, then pointed to himself in confusion. “I’m Shields, right?”

For a moment, she just stared. Then a short, bitter laugh escaped her. “Cryo-sleep,” she muttered. “Fries your brain. Every damn time.”

Shields nodded, looking shell-shocked. “Sure does.” Then his eyes slid over her shoulder, and he went pale.

Y/N didn’t have to turn around to know something was there. The air felt different—colder, heavier, and alive with a presence that made her skin crawl. Fear twisted in her gut, relentless.

“Get dressed,” she snapped, snatching a warm-up suit from a storage compartment and thrusting it at him. Her voice shook, but her hands were already flying over the console, checking readings.

“Fifteen-fifty millibars,” she muttered. “Dropping twenty a minute. Dammit, we’re bleeding air. Something nailed us, and it wasn’t gentle.”

Shields clutched the suit like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands trembling. “Tell me we’re still in the shipping lane,” he begged. “Tell me it’s just stars out there—endless stars.”

Static crackled on the display as Y/N keyed in commands, her heart pounding. When the screen finally cleared, her stomach twisted. Not stars. Not the vast, empty black she’d hoped for. Instead, a planet loomed—huge, angry, its atmosphere swirling with bruised shades of purple and gray, like a living storm ready to devour them.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, the words dropping from her lips like lead.

Then the ship lurched, starting its fall. It began with a savage, grinding howl as the Hunter-Gratzner tried and failed to fight gravity. Metal tore, supports snapped, and the deck tilted under her feet. She lurched forward, scraping her hands on the jagged edge of a console. Smoke stung her eyes, the acrid stench of burning wires filling her lungs.

Through the viewport, the planet’s churning atmosphere rushed up to meet them, a hungry predator closing in. Too close. Too fast. She forced herself to move despite the slanting corridors and the crushing pull of gravity.

Her headset crackled: Shields’ panicked voice cut through the screech of alarms. “They taught you this in training, right? Frenchie? Please tell me you remember the drills!”

She couldn’t answer. She could hardly think. Her surroundings blurred—frost-coated walls, blood smears, cables sparking overhead as she staggered through. By the time she reached the flight deck, she half-collapsed into the pilot’s seat, vision spinning.

Sweat slicked her fingers as she fumbled with the harness. She muttered curses under her breath until, finally, the clasps locked. Slamming her fist against the console, she prayed the failing systems would cooperate one last time. Damaged panels flickered, crash shutters groaning open to reveal the storm outside.

It was like staring into a swirling cauldron—red and gray clouds boiling in pure rage. They weren’t just falling; they were plunging, yanked down by forces well beyond her control. Her hands moved on instinct, flipping switches and twisting knobs in a frantic attempt to steer them out of this dive.

“Crisis program…” Shields’ voice came again, high-pitched and unsteady. “We’ve still got oxygen—fifteen hundred millibars. Surface pressure… oh, God.” He paused, his words faltering. “Maybe the ship’s in a good mood? For once?”

She pictured him cowering at his station, knuckles white, fear bleeding through every syllable. It spiked her own terror.

“Shields,” she croaked, her throat raw. “Focus.”

The stick suddenly jerked in her hands, fighting her attempts to level out. A faint hiss sounded, followed by a dull, bone-rattling thunk that echoed through the cabin like doom itself.

“Frenchie?” Shields’ voice cracked. “What the hell are you doing?”

The jettison doors were sliding shut. Her hand moved almost of its own accord, toggling latches with icy precision. Her thumb hovered over the switch that would shift the ship’s center of gravity—along with its passengers. She trembled, staring at the storm outside. She could practically feel Shields’ stare burning into her.

“Too much weight,” she said, voice taut as a wire about to snap. “I can’t keep the nose up. If I don’t—”

“You mean the passengers,” Shields interrupted, his breath hitching. “Forty people, Frenchie.”

Her jaw locked. “So we both go down? Out of some noble gesture?”

The silence that followed was worse than any alarm. It pressed in on her, suffocating, while outside, the storm raged. Her thumb quivered on the switch, a cold piece of metal that felt like an executioner’s blade.

She could practically feel the planet’s pull, like a weight on her chest. She imagined the look on Shields’ face—disbelief, maybe betrayal. She couldn’t bring herself to look back.

The ship’s hum, once so comforting, was gone—replaced by the wail of stressed metal and piercing sirens.

“Don’t,” Shields whispered, his tone stripped bare. It wasn’t a command or a plea. It was the broken voice of someone who already knew how this could end.

Her head dropped, a ragged sob or curse catching in her throat—she couldn’t tell which. The planet was swallowing them whole, the shaking and roaring all around an echo of the turmoil inside her. Forty lives weighed on her, crushing her soul.

With a sudden cry, she pounded her fist on the console, rattling loose screws and broken panels. The switch remained untouched.

The cryo-lockers hissed open in unison, a sound too serpentine, too alive. Frost curled over the plexiglass, twisting into vaporous tendrils that slithered toward the dim lights overhead. The ship shuddered. The deck groaned beneath the weight of its own failing systems.

Lee stirred inside his locker, fingers sluggish as they wiped at the frost. His thoughts felt submerged, murky, as if he were rising from a deep-sea dive. The overhead fluorescents flickered erratically, throwing jagged shadows across the metal walls. Something was wrong.

Across the aisle, Jungkook moved—slow, deliberate. The black goggles strapped over his eyes made him unreadable, but the sharp glint of metal between his teeth turned his grin into something feral. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his frame said everything.

Lee’s gaze snapped to the digital display blinking outside his locker. LOCK-OUT PROTOCOL IN EFFECT. ABSOLUTELY NO EARLY RELEASE. His stomach clenched.

Farther up the cabin, Y/N’s hands gripped the controls so tightly her knuckles blanched. The fractured monitors cast sickly light over her face, her breath coming fast and sharp. Behind her, Shields paced in tight, frantic circles, like a caged animal sensing a coming storm.

“Frenchie,” he barked, voice ragged with barely leashed panic. “NOSA—”

Y/N spun, eyes flashing. “NOSA isn’t here.” Her words cut like a scalpel, slicing clean through the rising chaos.

Shields froze, his lips pressing into a hard line. “The captain’s dead,” he said. No ceremony, no buffer. Just the truth. “That makes you in charge.”

Her laugh was bitter, jagged. “In charge?” Her fist slammed against the console, the impact like a gunshot. “You think a few hundred hours in a simulator prepped me for this?”

Shields unbuckled his harness, rising slow. Deliberate. “Don’t touch that switch,” he warned. His voice was even. Dangerous.

Y/N’s thumb hovered over it, sweat slicking her skin. The ship lurched. A shriek of metal tore through the cabin. Sparks rained down like dying stars. Her pulse hammered. And then—she slammed the switch.

“I’m not dying for them,” she muttered.

The Hunter-Gratzner bucked hard, carving a fiery scar across the sky as it plummeted. The hull shrieked. The jettison system hissed—then fell silent.

Nothing happened. The cryo-lockers remained sealed. Y/N’s breath caught. The switch was flipped, the call made. But the ship had refused her. Forty lives still frozen in limbo.

Shields cursed, hands a frantic blur over the interface. “Seventy seconds! You’ve got seventy seconds to level this beast out, Frenchie!”

She didn’t answer. Her focus tunneled in, every move muscle memory now. Switches flipped. Levers yanked. The ship groaned in protest, but she forced it to obey, wrenching it into some semblance of control.

Through the fractured windshield, the planet’s surface loomed—a maze of jagged rock, waiting to devour them whole. A metallic screech—louder than anything before—split the air as an airbrake tore loose, slamming into the windshield. The impact spiderwebbed the glass, splintering light into chaotic shards. The ship spasmed.

“What the hell was that?!” Shields’ voice was barely a breath through the comm.

Y/N didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked to the ground-mapping display—fractured, glitching, but still her only hope.

Sixty meters.

The cockpit rattled. The frame howled. Her hands were cramping, locked in a death grip on the controls.

Thirty.

The cryo-lockers exhaled in unison, a chorus of ghosts awakening. Lee blinked against the mist, lungs burning.

Ten.

The ship screamed. And then—impact.

The world didn’t just break. It detonated. The windscreen imploded, glass bursting inward like a thousand tiny daggers. The shockwave slammed Y/N back against her seat, her harness biting into her ribs. The cockpit filled with dust and debris, a choking maelstrom that turned every breath into a struggle.

In the passenger bay, Lee’s cryo-locker ejected with a violent hiss, spitting him onto the wreckage-strewn floor. His lungs seized as he gasped for air, mind reeling. Sparks flickered, casting eerie, broken light over the twisted remains of the ship.

His gaze caught on a massive crack splitting the hull—a wound too deep, too final.

Then—the groan. Deep, reverberating. A death knell. And the tearing.

A whole section of the ship peeled away, sliding free like dead skin. Rows of cryo-lockers went with it, vanishing into the swirling dust outside. Forty lockers. Forty people. Gone.

Shields’ voice crackled in Lee’s ear, raw, shaking. “We’re still breathing,” he rasped. “Oxygen’s holding at fifteen hundred millibars. Surface pressure… survivable.”

The word sounded like a joke. Lee pushed himself upright, legs shaking, ears ringing. The air was thick with the stench of scorched metal, blood, death. Around him, cries of pain cut through the chaos—some sharp and frantic, others weak, fading.

Jungkook’s cryo-locker was open. Empty. A slow, insidious chill climbed up Lee’s spine. His fingers darted to his hip, searching for his holster—gone. The unease slithered deeper, turning his gut into a leaden knot. He raised his flashlight, the beam cutting jagged arcs through the dust-choked air.

Then—a sound. Metal on metal. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Chains. The hairs on Lee’s neck stood on end. His breath shallowed. Slowly, unwillingly, he turned toward the noise. Two feet lowered into view from the shadows above—bare, bound in chains that whispered with each measured step.

His descent was too smooth, too unnatural. The black goggles strapped over his eyes caught the flickering light, cold and alien. The bit clamped between his teeth forced his mouth into something almost feral—not quite human.

Lee barely had time to react. The chain lashed toward him, a whip of coiled steel snapping tight around his throat. He staggered, hands clawing at the cold metal cutting off his air. Jungkook moved with silent precision, tightening the chain with a slow, measured pull. The darkness swayed. Lee’s vision blurred at the edges.

No. Not like this.

His fingers fumbled for the baton at his side. A flick—snap—and it extended, steel glinting in the fractured light.

Swing.

The first strike glanced off Jungkook’s ribs. No reaction. The second hit harder, enough to make the chain slacken just a fraction—enough to breathe. Lee’s instincts took over. He drove the baton up, hard, straight into Jungkook’s throat.

The force sent them both crashing to the floor. The impact rattled the remnants of the ship around them, a chorus of groaning metal and falling debris. Lee pinned Jungkook down, pressing his forearm hard against his throat. His breath was ragged, raw.

“One chance,” he growled, voice rough with fury. “You blew it.”

The dust began to settle. The ship around them was barely holding together—a skeletal ruin of scorched steel and shattered glass. Then, Lee’s flashlight caught a flicker of movement—a woman. He recognized her from when they boarded. The co-pilot. Her name was lost on him. Blood streaked her face, hair matted to her forehead, breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. But she was breathing.

“Over here,” she rasped. Steady. Unbreakable.

Lee stumbled toward her, boots crunching over shattered wreckage. He crouched, hands moving instinctively, shoving aside the debris pinning her down. The ship groaned with each piece he wrenched free, as if it resented his efforts.

And then—her legs were free. He hauled her up, her weight solid against him, but she barely found her footing before the reality of their situation slammed into her. Not just broken. Annihilated.

Her knees buckled. She sank, hands clawing at the scattered wreckage as if she could piece it all back together. Her lips parted. “Shields.” A whisper.

Then, frantic movement. She shoved aside jagged fragments of steel, shattered screens, the torn remains of the captain’s chair—anything, everything standing between her and what she already knew she’d find.

And then—she did. Strapped to his chair. A metal rod—long, jagged—pierced straight through his chest, impaling him like some grotesque marionette. Blood seeped in slow, dark rivers, pooling beneath him.

His eyes flew open. Wide. Wild. Panic-stricken. “OUT!” His scream ripped through the air. “GET IT OUT OF ME!”

Y/N jerked back, breath hitching. Around her, the others stumbled into the nav-bay, voices colliding in chaotic bursts.

“Pull it out!”

“No, leave it! You’ll kill him!”

“We don’t have a choice—just do it!”

The noise. The suffocating stench of blood and scorched wiring. It all pressed in, a heavy, cloying thing clawing at her senses. Her eyes flicked to the wall—where the med-locker should have been. Gone. Nothing left. Her pulse spiked. No anestaphine. No painkillers. Nothing. But she knew that already. She knew.

Her mind snapped into triage mode, training she hadn’t used since she’d first boarded the Starfire. The H-G had small med kits—scattered across compartments, emergency supplies meant for minor injuries, burns, fractures. Enough for patchwork. Not for this.

A quick scan of the room told her where they were—one in the overhead hatch, another tucked beneath the paneling by the nav station. She didn’t move. Didn’t go for them. Because she knew. Shields was going to die.

It didn’t matter if she used the last of their coagulants, their sterile dressings, their dwindling supply of stim injectors. The rod had pierced deep—a lung, maybe his aorta. If they pulled it, he’d bleed out in seconds. If they left it, he’d drown in his own blood.

There was no saving him. Silence crashed over them. Shields’ breathing was slowing, each rasping gasp a grim countdown. Y/N straightened. Her voice dropped—low, steady. Cold.

“Everyone. Back.”

The others froze, hesitated—then stepped away, shuffling like ghosts. Only Lee lingered. His gaze flicked to Jungkook’s bound form in the corner. Even shackled, Jungkook radiated menace, his stillness more unnerving than motion ever could be.

Y/N barely registered him. Her focus was on Shields. His body trembled beneath her hands, breath thin, ragged. She pressed her palm just above the wound, steadying him. He was shaking. Not from pain. From fear.

His eyes locked onto hers, searching—desperate. “I can’t die like this.”

The words were barely a whisper. Her throat tightened. “You won’t,” she lied. Because that’s what you did for the dying. You gave them something to hold onto. Even if it wasn’t real. She tightened her grip on his hand, let her voice drop to something softer. “This is going to hurt,” she murmured.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The suns hit like a clenched fist, brutal and unrelenting. Twin orbs, one molten red, the other a vicious yellow, scorched the sky and stretched jagged, overlapping shadows across the cracked, barren earth. The heat wasn’t just heat—it was something alive, something with teeth, pressing in, coiling tight around their throats, stealing breath with every shallow inhale. The air was dry, acrid, thick with dust that swirled at their boots, carried by a wind that keened through the desolation like a dying thing whispering its last confession.

The survivors stood in uneasy clusters, their movements wary, shapes distorted against the shimmering horizon. No one strode forward with confidence. Every step was measured, hesitant—like the planet itself might open its mouth and swallow them whole if they made the wrong move.

Daku and Bindi stood apart from the rest, a fortress of two. Daku was stillness carved from stone, his sharp gaze sweeping the alien expanse with the quiet calculation of a man who had survived worse. Bindi, by contrast, was all coiled energy, lean muscle stretched taut over bone, every movement precise. Not panicked. Just prepared.

Peter lingered at the edge of the group, dabbing at his sunburned face with a monogrammed handkerchief that belonged in a boardroom, not here. He let out a brittle, humorless laugh. “Welcome to paradise.” His voice was thin, dry as the air, and it barely made it past his chapped lips. No one laughed. There was no room for humor here.

In the distance, the wreckage of their ship lay sprawled against the cracked earth like the carcass of some great, wounded beast. Twisted metal jutted at odd angles, blackened from the crash, half-buried in the dust like the bones of something the sky had spit out and abandoned. It was silent now, but it didn’t feel still. It felt like it was waiting.

Inside, Y/N moved through the ruins, hands working mechanically, searching through the wreckage for anything salvageable. The silence pressed against her like a second atmosphere—thick, oppressive, wrong. The ship had once been their salvation. Now it was nothing more than a graveyard.

Near the wreckage, the Chrislams had gathered in a tight circle, white robes stark against the dust-streaked ground. Their heads were bowed, their lips moving in silent prayers—or grief. It was hard to tell which. Namjoon stood at their center, broad shoulders squared, his presence anchoring them even as doubt flickered across the younger pilgrims’ faces. Their hands fidgeted at the wooden crosses and crescent pendants hanging from their necks, symbols of faith that suddenly felt like relics of a world too far away to matter anymore.

A boy, no older than fifteen, broke the silence, his voice raw with desperation. “Which way is New Mecca?” His hands were pressed together, pleading. “We need to know where to pray.”

The words hung in the air, weightless, useless. There was no north here. No compass points. No stars to guide them. Just endless wasteland stretching toward an indifferent horizon. Jagged hills clawed at the sky like broken teeth, dark silhouettes against the searing light.

Namjoon lifted his face, squinting against the blinding suns, searching for something—an answer, a direction, a sign. But the sky gave him nothing.

Lee fumbled with a battered compass, flicked it open, watched the needle spin uselessly before snapping it shut with a frustrated hiss. “Even this thing’s lost.” He shoved it back into his pocket.

The ship groaned behind them, a deep, wounded sound, like something exhaling its last breath.

Inside, Y/N sat on the scorched floor, her back pressed against cold metal. Shields’ body was cradled in her lap, his head resting against her chest. The rod that had impaled him was still there—a grotesque, final punctuation mark. His blood was thick and dark against her hands, its metallic tang heavy in the air.

She had tried. God, she had tried. She had shouted orders, whispered reassurances, prayed to gods she never believed in. But none of it had been enough.

The others had moved on, their voices distant through the ruined hull. But Y/N stayed.

Because this wasn’t just a wreckage. It was a grave. And she was the only mourner.

The twin suns poured their merciless light through the jagged tear in the hull, turning dust into molten gold. It shimmered, beautiful in the way cruel things often were—dazzling, deceptive. The light exposed everything. Every failure, every flaw. There was nowhere to hide.

Y/N shifted, her muscles trembling, stiff with exhaustion as she eased Shields’ body to the floor. Her fingers lingered at his shoulder, unwilling to sever that last, fragile tether to the man he had been. The warmth was already leeching from his skin.

Then, slowly, she rose.

Outside was worse.

The heat struck like a hammer, thick, oppressive, pushing against her lungs with every breath. Dust swirled in restless eddies at her feet, the wind sharp as glass, carving at her skin, splitting her lips. A few yards away, the Chrislams knelt in the dirt, heads bowed, lips moving in murmured prayers. Their voices were barely a ripple against the keening wind, but it was the only human sound left in this place. For a moment, she let it fill the cracks inside her, a balm against the unraveling edges of her sanity.

Lee stood apart, one hand raised to shield his eyes against the glare. His jaw was tight, his shoulders locked, a silent fortress against whatever storm raged inside him. When Y/N stepped down from the wreckage, his gaze flicked to her, brief but cutting. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. Some things didn’t need to be said.

The land stretched before them, vast, indifferent. Jagged hills rose like broken ribs, their peaks tearing into the sky. Shadows pooled in the valleys, deep and impenetrable, as though the planet itself was swallowing the light. There was no refuge. No soft place to land. Only the brutal reality of survival.

Y/N swallowed against the rawness in her throat. “We’re on our own now.”

The words weren’t a revelation. They were a sentence.

No rescue was coming. No help would break through this alien sky.

She squared her shoulders beneath the weight of it, forcing one foot in front of the other, because the only way out was forward. Even when everything inside her begged to turn back.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The suns glared down, merciless and unblinking, turning the wreckage into a molten skeleton of what it had once been. Heat shimmered off the twisted metal, a feverish mirage making the debris seem like it was still shifting, still alive. But it wasn’t. It was dead—just like the people who hadn’t made it out.

Y/N climbed the jagged remains of the hull, her boots slipping against scorched metal, her fingers gripping the torn edges of a fractured panel. Her muscles ached, her breath came too short, too shallow. The air was too thin. Too dry. It scraped against her throat like sandpaper, and every inhale felt like a battle she was losing.

Below, the Chrislams knelt in the dust, their white robes dirtied and torn but still stark against the wasteland. Their soft prayers were barely audible over the dry, keening wind—a thread of humanity in a place that had none. Y/N let it wash over her for just a moment, a faint tether to something beyond survival.

Further up the wreckage, the others waited—Lee, Peter, Daku, Bindi, Leo. Their faces were carved with exhaustion, their silence heavier than the heat pressing down on them. Smoke curled from the wreckage behind them, black tendrils rising into the hazy sky. The crash had scarred the earth itself, leaving a deep trench of twisted metal and scorched rock, a wound with no hope of healing.

Y/N reached the top of the wreckage and let her gaze sweep the horizon. The planet stretched out before them in a wasteland of jagged rock and dust, the ground cracked and splintered like old bone. Sharp-edged hills rose in the distance, their peaks like broken teeth against the sky. There was no movement. No color. No life.

Only death, waiting for its turn.

“No one else made it,” she said, her voice low, steady. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an observation. It was a fact, as solid as the wreckage beneath her feet.

Silence stretched between them until Lee finally spoke, his voice dry and edged with bitterness. “They said there’d be a scouting party here.” He gestured toward the empty valley below, his words laced with grim sarcasm. “Guess they forgot the welcome committee.”

Peter coughed, dabbing at his sunburned face with that ridiculous monogrammed handkerchief. “Lovely spot,” he muttered. “Really. I mean, who doesn’t love the sensation of their lungs turning to parchment? Very exotic. Five stars.”

Y/N barely acknowledged him. Her focus was on the facts. The data. “The air’s too thin,” she said, voice clipped, clinical. “Not enough oxygen. Our bodies aren’t used to it. We’ll adjust, but it won’t be comfortable.”

Leo wiped sweat from his forehead, his face pale despite the heat. “Feels like breathing through a straw,” he muttered.

Peter waved his handkerchief dramatically. “Asthmatic here. Literal hell. Can I file a complaint, or is that not an option?”

“Enough,” Daku said, his voice cutting through the noise. His stance was firm, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked onto Y/N. “What happened?”

Y/N exhaled, rolling her shoulders against the weight of the question. “Debris. A rogue comet. A navigational error. I don’t know.” The admission felt like acid on her tongue. “What matters is that we’re here.”

“And alive,” Bindi added. Her tone was even, but there was something behind it—reluctant gratitude. “You got us down. That’s more than most pilots could have done.”

The words stung. Not because they were meant to, but because they weren’t true. Y/N knew that. They thought she’d saved them. But she knew better.

It wasn’t skill that had brought them down in one piece. It was luck. And luck never lasted.

She led them into what remained of the equipment bay, stepping over shattered panels, ducking beneath dangling wires. The air was thick with the scent of burned circuits and something else—something metallic and bitter. Blood.

Failure.

She knelt by a pile of debris and yanked free a suit, its fabric stiff with scorch marks. It would have to do. Holding it up, she said, “Liquid oxygen canisters. We rip them out. Short bursts, make them last. We don’t know how long we’ll need them.”

The group moved into action, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of survival. Leo lingered near her, watching her with an unsettling calm.

“Is someone coming for us?” he asked, voice steady in a way that made her stomach turn. “Or are we just gonna die here?”

The question hit like a stone dropped into deep water, sending ripples through the group. Y/N didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers tightened on the suit, knuckles whitening.

The others had paused, their movements stilled by the weight of the words.

Leo tilted his head. “I can handle it,” he said, softer now. “If we’re not making it out, you can just say so.”

Bindi stepped in, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. “We’re not giving up,” she said, her voice calm but absolute. “Not today.”

Leo hesitated, his bravado slipping just enough to reveal the scared kid underneath. Then he nodded.

The cabin reeked of sweat, scorched metal, and desperation. Shadows stretched long in the dim light, pooling in the corners, turning everything into a graveyard of broken machinery and shattered hope.

Y/N’s gaze drifted to the far side of the bulkhead, where Jungkook sat shackled and still, his presence more a quiet threat than anything else. The dark goggles covering his eyes reflected the dim light, a black void revealing nothing—no fear, no anger, no desperation. Just absence.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t test his restraints. Didn’t move at all. That was what made him dangerous.

Yet, despite the cold knot of unease tightening in her stomach, Y/N couldn’t help but notice—he was beautiful.

Not in the clean-cut, manufactured way of men who knew they were being watched. No, there was something raw about him, something untamed. He was tall, all lean muscle wrapped in pale skin, the sinew of a predator coiled beneath the surface. His inky black hair was too long, falling into his face in uneven layers, the kind of overgrowth that should’ve looked unkempt but only made him more striking.

And then there were the tattoos.

They climbed up his arms in a chaotic symphony of ink, patterns and symbols weaving together into something intricate, something deliberate. Black ink against pale skin. A story written in the language of the damned.

Y/N’s throat went dry. Did they stop at his arms? Or did they go further, trailing over his ribs, down his back, curling against his hips? The thought hit like a static charge, sharp and unbidden. She swallowed, dragging her gaze away before she could entertain it any further.

“What about him?” she asked, her voice low, unsure despite herself.

Lee snorted, smirking. “Big Evil? Leave him locked up.”

Y/N forced herself to focus. “We don’t have forever,” she snapped, frustration bubbling up before she could reel it in. She exhaled sharply, running a hand over her face. “He broke out of a max-slam facility. Do you really think a pair of cuffs is enough?”

Lee shrugged, careless. “Only dangerous around humans,” he muttered, his voice thick with implication.

Before Y/N could fire back, movement caught her eye—a thin, silver thread trickling down the hull, glinting against the harsh twin suns.

Her stomach clenched.

Water.

Everything else vanished.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up, scrambling over the wreckage, boots slipping against warped metal. The sting of sharp edges against her palms didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was reaching the cistern before it was too late.

She wrenched open the hatch, metal scorching beneath her fingers. Sunlight flooded in, illuminating the nightmare inside.

A thin, glistening stream dribbled from a deep fracture in the steel, seeping into the cracked earth below. The ground drank greedily, dark stains blooming where the precious liquid had been only moments before.

Y/N’s breath hitched. A curse slipped past her lips, low and raw. This wasn’t just a leak. This was death.

Footsteps crunched behind her, the others approaching in hesitant silence. No one spoke. They didn’t need to. The truth lay bare before them, glinting in the relentless light.

Y/N leaned heavily against the hatch, her fingers pressing against the scalding metal as if to steady herself. Her gaze stayed locked on the dirt, watching helplessly as the last of the water disappeared, vanishing like hope itself.

The planet wasn’t just going to kill them. It was going to make them watch while it did.

A muscle ticked in her jaw. Her nails bit into her palms until pain cut through the spiraling thoughts. No. There wasn’t time for this—not for despair, not for grief. The planet would take everything if they let it, and she refused to give it that satisfaction.

She turned away from the empty cistern, shoulders squared against the weight pressing down on her. The others were watching, sweat streaking their dirt-smeared faces, fear barely concealed behind exhaustion. They were waiting for her to tell them what to do.

“We keep moving,” she said, her voice steady despite the scream clawing at her insides. “We’ll find more. There’s always something out there.”

The words tasted like lies. But lies could keep people alive. And right now, survival was the only thing that mattered.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The cargo hold reeked of scorched wiring and failure—the kind of failure that clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made itself at home. The air was thick with it, stifling, oppressive. Y/N wiped a grimy hand across her forehead and pressed on, stepping over shattered panels and the twisted wreckage of what had once been their future.

Somewhere in this mess, there were MRAs. Mobile Resource Augmenters. Compact, efficient, life-saving. They were designed to extract moisture from the air, convert it into drinkable water, and they sure as hell weren’t cheap. NOSA wouldn’t have sent them on a long-haul mission without at least a few onboard.

She knew they were here, but no one else seemed to care.

Y/N was used to working with the best—astronauts trained to push beyond the limits of human endurance. On Aguerra Prime, her name meant something. She was a government official, a veteran of deep-space missions, one of the top-ranked astronauts in NOSA’s fleet. She had survived hostile environments before.

This, though? This was worse. Because she was surrounded by people who should have been fighting to survive—but weren’t.

Peter moved through the wreckage with a magician’s flourish, fingers dancing over the lock of a sealed crate like he was about to unveil something miraculous. The lid groaned open, dust puffing into the stale air, and inside lay…

Furniture. Tiffany chairs. Polished bronze lecterns. An entire crate filled with useless, gaudy antiques.

Lee let out a sharp whistle, nudging the crate with his boot. “King Tut’s tomb,” he muttered. “Just what we needed.”

Peter’s face lit up, eyes gleaming as he ran a reverent hand over an antique desk. “This,” he murmured, “is Wooten. A very rare piece, mind you.”

Y/N stared at him, patience fraying like old wiring. “A desk?” she asked, her voice sharper than the heat outside. “Not food. Not water. A desk?”

Peter waved her off, as if she were the one being unreasonable. “Not just a desk,” he corrected, prying open a hidden compartment.

Nestled inside, gleaming like a sick joke, sat a row of liquor bottles. Sherry. Scotch. Vintage port.

Y/N felt something snap. “We’re dying of thirst, and you brought booze?”

Peter stiffened, his hand hovering protectively over the bottles. “Two-hundred-year-old single-malt scotch,” he said, tone dripping with wounded pride. “To call it ‘booze’ is like calling foie gras ‘duck guts.’”

Lee barked a laugh, already reaching for a bottle. The seal cracked with a soft pop, and the sharp scent of aged alcohol filled the air, thick and cloying. He raised it mockingly. “Here’s to survival—or whatever the hell he just said.”

Y/N clenched her jaw so tightly it ached.

She had spent the last hour shifting wreckage, trying to move beams twice her weight, searching for anything that could actually keep them alive.

And these idiots were getting drunk.

Her gaze flicked to the scattered debris. There were still places she hadn’t checked, still a chance the MRAs were buried under the twisted metal, waiting for someone to dig them out.

But as she looked around, at Peter cradling his precious scotch, at Lee tipping his bottle back like this was some kind of vacation, at the rest of them barely pretending to care—she felt the fight drain out of her.

No one was going to help her, and she was done trying to save people who didn’t want to be saved.

She exhaled sharply, the decision settling like a stone in her stomach. Without a word, she turned on her heel, stepping away from the wreckage, away from the lost cause unfolding in front of her.

She had been trained to adapt, to survive no matter what. But NOSA had never prepared her for this. The footsteps came before the words.

Namjoon and his followers stepped into the wreckage, their white robes streaked with dust but still somehow immaculate, like they existed just outside the filth and chaos consuming the rest of them. The Chrislams moved with that same unsettling calm, like they hadn’t yet realized the depth of their predicament.

Y/N barely spared them a glance. She was past caring.

But Lee—still riding the high of finding nothing useful—wasn’t about to let them pass without commentary.

He slammed his bottle onto a metal crate with a hollow clink, his frustration breaking through the haze of heat and exhaustion. “For what?” he demanded, voice sharp. “There’s no water. No food. Just rocks, dust, and death as far as the eye can see.”

Namjoon met his glare without flinching. “All deserts have water,” he said softly. “Somewhere.”

Lee let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Great. You talk to God, then? He got directions?”

Namjoon didn’t blink.

“God will lead us there.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and immovable, like the wreckage around them. Y/N bit down on the retort bubbling up in her throat, but the pragmatist in her screamed louder than any prayer. Water didn’t come from faith. It came from work, from tearing apart this wreck until her hands bled.

“While God’s drawing up a map,” she muttered, turning back to the containers, “we’ll keep looking.”

Namjoon inclined his head respectfully and led his followers away, their murmured prayers fading into the distance. For a moment, Y/N envied their calm. Then Peter’s humming broke the quiet, his fingers trailing lovingly over the polished wood of the desk as if cataloging a museum piece. Her jaw tightened, but she swallowed the urge to snap. Wasting energy on him wasn’t worth it.

Lee pried open another container with a sharp kick, sending a plume of dust into the air. Inside was a heap of torn fabric and broken machinery, tangled and useless. He swore under his breath and shoved it aside, his frustration vibrating in every movement. “This is a goddamn joke,” he muttered. “We’re supposed to survive with this?”

“Keep looking,” Y/N snapped. Her voice cracked like a whip, harsh and desperate. The panic simmering just beneath her surface slipped through. “We don’t find water soon, no one’s making it out of here.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the scrape of metal and the mournful whistle of wind through the wreckage. Outside, the suns continued their relentless assault, the wind carrying dust and the heavy weight of despair. Y/N pressed her hand against the ship’s hull, the heat seeping into her palm. Every moment without progress felt like another step closer to death.

She moved toward the equipment bay, her focus narrowing. Somewhere in the wreckage were the pieces of the ship’s water generator. If she could just find them—just piece it together—they wouldn’t have to rely on the barren, unforgiving land outside. But her concentration splintered, fraying with every glance at the others.

Peter’s oblivious grin. Lee’s sharp frustration. Namjoon’s calm certainty. All of it clung to her like the heat, pressing in, pulling her mind away from the task at hand.

Her fingers brushed against a bent panel, her breath hitching as she caught sight of something familiar—part of the generator’s casing. Relief surged, but it was fleeting. The casing was twisted, its edges sharp and useless without the core components. Her chest tightened as she knelt, wrenching it free, her hands shaking as she turned it over in search of something—anything—that could still work.

Behind her, Leo’s small voice cut through the haze. “So,” he said, too calm for a kid his age. “What happens if we don’t find it? The water?”

The question hit her like a blow, her grip tightening on the casing. Around her, the others stilled, their movements halting under the weight of Leo’s words.

“You don’t have to pretend for me,” he added, his tone flat, unflinching. “I can take it.”

Y/N closed her eyes, her breath shaky. When she finally spoke, her voice was brittle, scraping against the silence. “We’ll find it.”

It wasn’t an answer. It was a promise. And God help her, she didn’t know if she could keep it.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The ship groaned like a dying animal, its ruptured hull straining against the inevitable. Twisted metal rasped against itself, the sound a constant needle under the skin, an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Dust hung thick in the air, turned to gold by the merciless twin suns that stabbed through the fractured ceiling. Every breath tasted of scorched circuitry and hydraulic fluid, the scent of ruin and slow decay.

Jungkook sat in the shadows, chained to the bulkhead, utterly still. Not the stillness of resignation—but of patience. Of calculation. His wrists, raw from steel cuffs, rested against his thighs, fingers loose, body deceptively relaxed. The dark goggles strapped over his eyes reflected slivers of fractured light, a predator’s gaze hidden behind black glass. The mouth-bit locked over his teeth was meant to make him less dangerous.

It only made him look like a caged beast waiting for the lock to fail.

The ship shifted again, the wreckage settling into itself. He ignored it. The ship was already dead. That wasn’t his problem.

But Y/N’s absence was. Not that he cared. Not really.

But she was the only one in this mess who wasn’t an idiot. The only one who thought ahead. Moved with purpose. Her voice carried weight, her commands cutting through chaos like a blade. That kind of control was rare. Most people shattered when things got bad. She didn’t.

Still, he’d expected more when he first got a good look at her. Too lean. Too sharp. Built for function, not decoration. No softness, nothing extra. Not the kind of woman who caught his eye.

But then she’d spoken. And the way the room shifted around her—the way even the air seemed to move when she did—had made him reconsider.

Not beautiful, but something. And that something was more interesting than pretty.

Jungkook rolled his shoulders, cataloging the weight of his restraints, the tension in his muscles already fading. The nickname he’d overheard while half-conscious surfaced in his mind.

Frenchie. Too small. Too soft. Didn’t suit her at all.

The cutting torch lay just out of reach, its dull gleam a whisper in the wreckage. His head tilted slightly, lips curling behind the bit—not a smile, something colder. The ship was quiet now, save for the occasional creak, but Jungkook had already mapped every fracture, every weakness, every way out. The crack in the hull above him was subtle, barely there.

To anyone else. To Jungkook, it was an invitation. A flaw. A way through.

He shifted, testing the give of his chains. Metal rasped against metal, a whisper swallowed by the ship’s dying groans. He didn’t flinch. He just moved slower, smoother—a shadow moving through shadows.

Then, without hesitation, a sickening pop shattered the silence.

His left shoulder dislocated, tendons twisting, bones shifting in a grotesque ballet of control. Pain flickered at the edge of his consciousness, a distant thing, irrelevant. His breath remained steady.

Another pop. The right shoulder went next.

He exhaled slowly, muscles flexing, and with a sharp, brutal motion, his arms twisted through the narrow gap between his head and the bulkhead. His hands, now free, hung limp at his sides. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with a precise, measured force, he rolled his shoulders back into place. The snap of bone meeting socket reverberated through the cabin, a sound that made most men sick.

Jungkook barely noticed.

The cuffs slipped from his wrists, hitting the floor with a final, hollow clatter.

He rose in one smooth motion, unfolding to his full height, presence suddenly too much for the cramped space. The air felt different. Thicker.

He stepped forward, moving toward the torch, his bare feet silent against the floor. The chains lay abandoned behind him, the weight of them meaningless now. The torch was warm against his fingers as he picked it up, rolling it once in his palm, adjusting to its feel.

Then he turned.

The goggles hid his eyes, but the smirk behind the bit was unmistakable.

The cutting torch hummed to life in his grip, a low, vibrating growl that filled the silence.

He was free.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The world beyond the wreckage was a graveyard—heat and silence stretched endlessly in every direction, oppressive, unyielding. Twin suns hung in the sky like merciless sentinels, their light leeching color from the landscape until only stark, blinding desolation remained. The ground was a cracked, scorched wound, dust spiraling in restless eddies, threading through jagged rock formations and yawning craters. In the distance, hills wavered like mirages, ghostly illusions rippling in the heat, always there, never reachable.

Lee stood at the edge of the ruin, half in shadow, half in the unrelenting blaze of the suns. The tang of sweat and burnt metal clung thick in the air, catching at the back of his throat. His pistol rested loosely in his grip, a lifeline more than a weapon. A thing to hold onto. A reminder that he wasn’t defenseless, even if the planet seemed indifferent to the concept of survival.

The silence pressed in, heavy. Wrong.

Silence should’ve been relief. Silence should’ve meant safety. But this wasn’t that kind of quiet. This was the kind that watched. The kind that waited.

His gaze swept the horizon, scanning the brittle, broken ground for something—anything—out of place. But the emptiness was deceptive, shifting, playing tricks on his eyes. The wreckage groaned behind him, metal expanding under the punishing heat. The ship was dying, settling into its grave. He ignored it. There were more immediate concerns.

Then—movement.

Not much. Just a glint, half-buried in the dust. A sliver of something reflecting the twin suns. Lee exhaled slowly, crouched, and reached for it, brushing aside the grit with careful, practiced efficiency.

The object came into view. A curved piece of metal. Scuffed. Worn. Unmistakable. His stomach dropped. The mouth-bit. Jungkook’s.

Lee straightened too fast, the bit still clutched in his hand, his fingers tightening around it like it might bite him. His other hand curled reflexively around the pistol’s grip, knuckles bloodless. The planet, empty and endless just moments ago, now felt like a set of teeth closing in.

Jungkook was loose. The realization landed like a hammer blow, cold despite the heat.

Lee had seen what the man could do—shackled. What he could be, even when restrained by steel and sedation. Now, the shackles were gone. The bit that had kept him contained was nothing more than a useless scrap of metal in Lee’s hand.

And Jungkook was out there. Somewhere. Lee scanned the landscape again, but the terrain mocked him. Too much space. Too many places to disappear. Too many places to hunt from.

The wreckage of the ship loomed behind him. The others were still inside—Bindi, Namjoon, Peter. Oblivious. They had no idea what had just been set loose into their already precarious existence.

Lee’s jaw clenched. Like we needed another way to die.

He turned the bit over in his palm, its edges smooth from use, from time, from teeth. He should’ve known. They all should’ve known. But it had been easier to ignore the truth than to face it.

Now, that denial had come at a cost.

The wind kicked up, whispering through the wreckage, sending dust scuttling across the cracked earth. The sound of it sent a chill down his spine, because it wasn’t the wind he was afraid of.

Lee shoved the bit into his pocket, a grim token of what lurked beyond the ship’s broken hull. Jungkook wasn’t just a problem. He wasn’t just dangerous. He was intentional. A force of nature with purpose. Whatever he wanted, whatever he was planning, it wasn’t going to end well for anyone.

He turned back toward the ship, every muscle wired tight, every step measured. The pistol was steady in his grip now, but the weight of it felt inadequate.

This wasn’t over. Not even close. The silence had changed. It wasn’t just emptiness anymore. It was a warning. Jungkook wasn’t watching from a distance.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The cargo hold was a machine of chaos—loud, desperate, and running on the thin fuel of fear. People moved like scavengers, tearing through storage lockers, prying open crates with bloodied hands, dragging whatever they could find into the nav-bay. Metal clattered, plastic scraped, breathless grunts and muttered curses filled the stale air. Dust spiraled in the fractured sunlight slanting through the ship’s wounds, turning the space into a golden, suffocating haze.

Y/N stood on the outskirts, arms crossed, watching. It wasn’t much of a stockpile, but it was all they had.

The room—once a hub of order and precision—now looked like a battlefield before the war even began. Broken panels, exposed wiring, the remains of shattered instruments littered the floor. In the middle of it all, their growing pile of salvaged weapons stood like an altar to survival.

Lee stepped up first. No hesitation, no wasted motion. He crouched beside the pile and inspected his finds: a pistol, a shotgun, a baton. Well-used, well-loved. The shotgun bore the scars of a hard life—scratched barrel, faded stock—but the way Lee handled it left no doubt. The weapon was an extension of him. He loaded it with quiet efficiency, each metallic clink settling into the uneasy silence.

Behind him, Daku and Bindi added their contributions. A battered pickaxe, a handful of digging tools, and an old hunting boomerang—its edges worn, its surface scarred. Daku flicked his wrist, testing its balance. He nodded once, satisfied. Bindi, hovering close, scanned the room with sharp eyes, daring anyone to question their worth.

Then Namjoon stepped forward.

A ceremonial blade. Ancient. Ornate. The kind meant for rituals, not combat. The hilt gleamed under the dim light, its intricate carvings whispering of old traditions. But the edge—thin, honed—was made to cut. He set it down carefully, with a reverence that stood in stark contrast to the chaos around him.

And then there was Peter.

He stumbled into the room, arms overfilled with weapons that didn’t belong on a battlefield. His face was red, breath heavy, but he carried his haul like it meant something. He nearly tripped over a loose wire before dumping his findings onto the pile.

Silence followed.

Polished war-picks. A blow-dart hunting stick. A collection of relics that belonged in a museum, not a fight for survival.

Lee stared. “The hell are these?”

Peter straightened, his expression hovering somewhere between pride and offense. “Maratha crow-bill war-picks,” he declared, lifting one like a trophy. “Northern India. Extremely rare.”

Daku snorted. He picked up the hunting stick, turning it over in his hands, unimpressed. “And this?”

“Blow-dart hunting stick,” Peter shot back defensively. “Papua New Guinea. One of a kind.”

Daku let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, tossing the stick back onto the pile. “Looks like they went extinct for a reason.”

Peter’s face darkened. His fingers curled around the remaining items like they might be snatched away. “Why are we even bothering with this?” he snapped. “If Jungkook’s gone, he’s gone. Why should we care?”

The air changed. The tension turned solid.

Lee was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, his voice razor-edged. “First,” he said, his tone like the cocking of a gun, “because he can only survive out there for so long. Sooner or later, he’s coming back—for supplies. For water. For us.”

He let that settle, let them feel the weight of it.

“Second,” he continued, lowering his voice even further, “because killing is the only thing he’s ever been good at. And he likes it.”

No one spoke. No one moved.

Y/N felt the weight of those words settle into her chest, heavy as a loaded weapon. Jungkook wasn’t just a problem. He wasn’t a rogue element in their calculations.

He was a predator. And they were his prey. As if on cue, the group reached for their weapons.

Lee holstered the shotgun, his grip firm. Daku tested the boomerang again, tracing its edges with quiet precision. Even Peter, reluctant as he was, finally set one of his prized war-picks on the pile, his fingers lingering before he let go.

Y/N reached for the ceremonial blade.

It wasn’t made for this, but it would do. The weight of it felt strange in her hand, but solid. Steady. A promise.

The wind howled through the ruined hull, carrying the dry, metallic scent of the wasteland beyond. The horizon remained still, jagged peaks unmoving, but inside the ship, something had shifted.

The air felt electric. Like the moment before a storm. Y/N glanced at the others, their faces cast in flickering shadows. They were ready—or as ready as they could be.

Jungkook wasn’t gone. He was out there. Watching. Waiting. And now, so were they.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The ship jutted from the earth like a rusted blade, its jagged metal edges catching the dying light of twin suns. One burned a deep red, sinking low on the horizon, while the other clung stubbornly to the sky, casting long, broken shadows across the wasteland. Wind whispered through the wreckage, carrying the dry scent of scorched metal and sand, a faint, restless sound in the vast stillness.

Lee perched high on the hull, rifle balanced against his shoulder. His silhouette was razor-sharp against the sky’s bleeding colors. He moved only when necessary, scanning the horizon with a hunter’s patience, the kind of stillness that meant survival.

Then—movement.

A flicker. A distortion at the edge of his vision. His grip tightened. His breath held. What the hell was that?

The words barely escaped his lips, lost to the wind before anyone below could hear them.

On the ground, the others worked against time, piecing together survival from the ship’s remains. Daku and Bindi crouched over a makeshift workbench—little more than a pile of salvaged crates and twisted panels. They moved with careful efficiency, assembling breather units from scavenged tubing and half-broken filters. Each strap tightened, each valve checked, because failure wasn’t an option.

“Try it now,” Daku muttered, handing one to Leo.

The boy lifted it to his face, inhaling tentatively. A soft hiss, the measured release of oxygen. Relief flickered across his face, there and gone in an instant.

A few yards away, the Chrislams worked in silence, layering cloth over their heads, tying knots with practiced hands. Their transformation was seamless—fluid—turning them into nomads, figures that belonged to this land in a way the rest of them never would. Namjoon moved among them, his presence steady, guiding younger pilgrims as they secured their wrappings.

Y/N stood apart.

Her focus was on Shields. Or rather, what was left of him. His body was wrapped in salvaged cloth, the material rough, inadequate. But it was all she had. She tied the final knot, her fingers lingering for a moment, grounding herself in the task. When she straightened, her shadow stretched long and thin in the fading light.

“Namjoon.” Her voice was steady, though exhaustion clung to its edges. “We need to move before nightfall. While it’s still cool.”

Daku wiped a streak of sweat from his brow, glancing up. “What, you’re heading off too?”

Y/N nodded, jaw tight. “Lee’s leaving you a gun. Just one favor—bury my crew. They didn’t deserve to die here.”

Bindi met her gaze, expression soft but resolute. “We’ll take care of them.”

Then the sound came. Faint at first. A whisper. A reverence.

"Namjoon… Namjoon…"

The wind carried it toward them, weightless yet insistent. The group stilled. One by one, they turned toward the voice, rounding the wreckage to see where it came from.

And then, they saw it.

A blue star.

It flared against the horizon—impossibly bright, too large, too deliberate. It rose slowly, cutting through the burnt reds and oranges of the sunset like a blade. The light spread, stretching long shadows across the cracked land, shifting as if the planet itself had taken a breath.

Bindi exhaled sharply. “My bloody oath.”

“Three suns?” Leo whispered, his voice thin with disbelief.

Daku shook his head, his expression dark. “So much for nightfall.”

“And so much for cocktail hour,” Peter muttered, but the joke died the second it hit the air.

Namjoon stepped forward, bathed in the blue glow. The light painted his face in something almost holy. His voice was calm, steady, carrying the weight of quiet conviction.

“We take this as a sign. A path. A direction from God.”

Before anyone could respond, Lee moved.

He slid down the wreckage, boots kicking up dust as he landed. He straightened, brushing himself off, his rifle still slung across his shoulder. His face was unreadable, his eyes sharp.

“A very good sign,” he said, nodding toward the blue star. “That’s Jungkook’s direction.”

Y/N’s gaze flickered to him, unreadable. “Thought you said you found his restraints over there,” she said, jerking her chin toward the opposite horizon, where the red sun was slipping beneath the cracked earth.

Lee didn’t flinch. “I did.” His voice was even, final. “Which means he’s moving toward sunrise.”

The words settled like a stone in the pit of Y/N’s stomach. Jungkook wasn’t wandering. He wasn’t lost. He had a direction. A purpose. And it was moving closer.

She looked back at the star, its eerie light shifting the landscape into something foreign, something watching. A slow exhale left her lips, her mind sharpening.

“Then we move,” she said, her voice unyielding. “Before he decides to double back.”

No one argued. No one hesitated. Because the truth was simple. They weren’t just running from Jungkook anymore. They were following him.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The horizon shimmered, a mirage of heat and shifting color, an alien dream unraveling in the distance. The landscape stretched out before them like an open wound, raw and unrelenting, bruised in shades of violet and ochre under the double glare of the twin suns. To stare too long was to feel the world slip sideways, the very fabric of reality twisting under the weight of its own unnatural stillness.

They moved in a thin, fragile procession, their figures small against the vastness, nothing more than a line of ghosts fading into the endless heat.

The Chrislams led the way, their voices rising and falling in quiet, hypnotic rhythm. Their steps were deliberate, measured, faith woven into every movement. Incense pots swung gently from their hands, sending tendrils of spiced smoke curling into the air—an offering, a prayer, a plea for something greater than themselves. The scent tangled uneasily with the metallic tang of dust, the dry crackle of a world long since abandoned to silence.

Lee followed at a short distance, shotgun resting easy in his arms, though his grip spoke of exhaustion more than readiness. Sweat streaked through the dust on his face, his makeshift visor—a jagged scrap of plexiglass tied down with wire—biting into his skin. He ignored it. The pain was secondary. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the horizon with the wary focus of a man who understood that stillness could kill just as surely as motion.

Beside him, Y/N shifted the weight of Peter’s ridiculous war-pick across her back. The ornate handle dug into her shoulder with every step, a mockery of their situation. A relic in a place that demanded survival, not sentiment. She had given up rolling her eyes after the first hour—exhaustion had a way of dulling even irritation.

Peter trailed behind, his face pink from the sun, his every step labored. And yet, he cradled his remaining artifact like a sacred object, a lifeline to something that only made sense to him.

The sky loomed, too vast, too fluid, its colors seeping into one another like ink bleeding through paper. The heat distorted the air, turning the horizon into something unreal, something that moved even when it shouldn’t. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t mean peace.

It meant something was waiting.

Y/N fumbled with the cloth she had tried—and failed—to wrap around her head. Her fingers, slick with sweat, kept losing their grip, the fabric slipping no matter how many times she adjusted it. The suns beat down, relentless, burning through her scalp, through her bones.

Namjoon noticed.

He didn’t speak. Just stepped closer, his movements calm, measured. Before she could protest, his hands brushed against hers, taking the cloth with quiet certainty. He wrapped it with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times, securing each fold, each knot, with practiced ease.

Y/N stiffened. She wasn’t used to small kindnesses.

“It’s too quiet,” she muttered, her voice too loud in the stillness. “You get used to the hum of the ship, the engines… then suddenly, it’s just… nothing.”

Namjoon tied the last knot, adjusting the fabric slightly. “Do you know who Muhammad was?” he asked, his voice low, conversational—like they were discussing something as ordinary as the weather.

She blinked at him. “Some prophet guy?”

His lips twitched. “Some prophet guy.” He stepped back, eyes scanning his work before meeting hers again. “He was a city man, but he had to go to the desert—to the silence—to hear the words of God.”

Y/N squinted against the glare. “So, you were on a pilgrimage? To New Mecca?”

He nodded. “Chrislam teaches that once in every lifetime, there should be a great hajj—a journey. To know God better, yes. But also to know yourself.”

A dry laugh slipped from her lips, brittle as the ground beneath their boots. “Sounds terrifying.”

Namjoon just watched her, waiting.

She exhaled. “I grew up on Helion Five,” she admitted, tugging the cloth slightly, testing its weight. “Not as nice as Prime.”

Something flickered in Namjoon’s expression—recognition, maybe respect. “Least religious of all the Helion planets,” he said. “And the poorest.”

Y/N nodded. “I studied botany on Prime. Spent eight years at the technical institute.”

Namjoon’s face shifted, surprised but pleased. “Then you’ve been to New Mecca.”

“I have.” Her voice softened slightly. “Studied under Dr. Abbas.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head in wonder. “Dr. Abbas was a mentor to my uncle. I met him once, when I was young. Brilliant man.”

Y/N nodded. The memories flickered behind her eyes—the towering spires of New Mecca, the hydro-gardens sprawling across the academy, faith and science woven together in delicate balance. It had been an oasis of learning, a place of possibility.

A place that should have led her somewhere better than this.

But then Helion Five ran out of money, and so did she. Her funding dried up, and she ended up back in the dirt, scraping by, until a flight school opportunity on Aguerra Prime sent her halfway across the galaxy.

She didn’t say that part.

At least NOSA paid well. At least the benefits were better than anything in the Helion System.

Namjoon studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he said, “You’re full of surprises.”

Before Y/N could respond, Lee stopped. His entire body locked, every muscle wound tight. His breath sharpened. Then—his voice, low, razor-sharp. “Hold up.”

The words carved through the air, snapping every nerve in Y/N’s body to attention.

Lee lifted his rifle, scanning the horizon. His stance had changed—tight, predatory, every line of his body braced for whatever came next.

A ripple of unease passed through the group.

Y/N stepped forward, pulse quickening. “What is it?”

Lee didn’t answer immediately. He just handed her the scope, his expression grim.

She pressed it to her eye, adjusting to the warped, heat-rippled view. At first, she saw only what she expected—the same endless wasteland, stretching as far as the horizon. The cracked ground, desiccated and lifeless. The swirling dust, shifting restlessly in the dry, scorching wind. The emptiness, vast and absolute.

Then—something.

A cluster of thin, vertical shapes disrupted the monotony of the landscape.

She frowned. Her first instinct labeled them as trees, but the thought was dismissed as quickly as it formed. That was impossible.

She adjusted the focus, scanning for details, but the air above the superheated ground distorted everything. Waves of refracted light bent and twisted the landscape, making the objects shift in and out of coherence. She knew how easily the mind could be deceived under conditions like this—optical illusions born from extreme temperature gradients.

Still, she studied them.

They stood upright, dark against the glare of the horizon, irregular in height and spacing. They weren’t moving. Not even a fraction. No branches trembling in the wind. No leaves fluttering. Just still, rigid silhouettes.

Her jaw tightened.

If they were plant life, they shouldn’t be here. The conditions were too extreme. The heat alone would desiccate any surface vegetation in hours—if not outright kill it. Water, if it existed at all, would be buried deep underground, far from the sun’s reach. Any life here would have adapted to that reality. It would stay hidden, evolving in subterranean networks, safe from radiation and exposure.

But these things stood exposed, unyielding beneath a sky that could boil blood.

She exhaled slowly. If they weren’t trees, then what? Rock formations? But they were too slender, too irregular, lacking the weathered smoothness she’d expect from geological structures shaped by the elements.

Her mind cycled through possibilities.

Dead stalks of something that once lived? Artificial structures? Or just a mirage—some trick of light warping the landscape into false patterns?

She lowered the scope, blinking hard, then looked again with her naked eye. The shapes were still there, but less distinct, as if they faded into the background when not magnified.

That unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Her fingers tightened around the scope.

"Those aren't trees," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.

Y/N lowered the scope, pressing her lips into a thin line. The shapes still lingered on the edge of the horizon, indistinct and unreal, but her mind refused to place them in any known category. That alone made her uneasy.

“They aren’t trees,” she repeated, calmer this time. More certain.

Lee scoffed. “And you know that how?”

She turned to him, pulse steady despite the irritation curling in her chest. “Because trees don’t grow in places like this. Not on a planet this hot, this dry. Any plant life would be subterranean—assuming there’s life at all. Whatever those are, they’re not—”

“We’ll check it out.”

Y/N stiffened. “That’s not what I—”

Lee was already moving, waving for the others to prepare. “Not gonna stand here debating with a pilot who thinks she’s a scientist,” he muttered, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

Her fingers curled into a fist at her side. “I have a PhD in botany, actually,” she said flatly. “Which is why I’m telling you—”

“And I have a gun,” Lee cut in, not even looking at her. “So we’re gonna make sure.”

Y/N inhaled sharply through her nose. Of course. Of course, he was like this. She’d had his type figured out in the first ten minutes—loud, condescending, the kind of man who couldn’t stomach the idea of someone else knowing more than he did.

“You could just listen to her,” Namjoon interjected, stepping up beside her. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was an edge to his tone, subtle but firm. “She’s probably right. We don’t know what’s out there, and heading straight toward something unknown isn’t exactly smart.”

Lee exhaled sharply, turning back just enough to give Namjoon an unimpressed look. “Yeah? And what’s your plan, genius? Stand around and argue?”

“I think his plan,” Y/N said coolly, “is to use common sense.”

Lee barked a laugh. “Right. Common sense is what gets people killed. We don’t assume, we confirm.” His gaze flicked back to her, sharp with challenge. “Unless you’re scared?”

Y/N’s expression didn’t change, but inside, something clenched. Not in fear—just exhaustion. She’d dealt with men like this her entire career. She knew exactly how this argument would play out. She could cite a hundred scientific reasons why approaching those things was unnecessary at best, dangerous at worst, and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.

Lee wanted to stomp over there just to prove he could.

Fine. Let him.

“Whatever,” she muttered, shoving the scope back into his hands. “Let’s go, then.”

She didn’t miss Namjoon’s concerned glance, but she ignored it. If following Lee into a potential death trap was what it took to get him to shut up, so be it.

At least when this inevitably turned out to be a waste of time, she’d get to say I told you so.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The wrecked ship knifed through the barren skyline, its twisted metal ribs jutting like bones against the backdrop of twin burning suns. The land stretched endlessly in every direction—cracked, lifeless, shimmering under the weight of an unrelenting heat. The ship’s remains had become a monument to survival, a jagged scar on an already brutal world.

Perched atop the wreck, Peter reclined as if he were sunbathing at a luxury resort instead of stranded on a hellscape. His misting umbrella—a ridiculous contraption of indulgence and pure audacity—hissed softly, releasing a cooling vapor laced with alcohol. The mist shimmered in the dry air, enveloping him in a cocoon of decadence, as if the wasteland were merely an inconvenience rather than a death sentence.

Below, Daku appeared, dragging a makeshift sled across the scorched earth. The thing groaned under the weight of scavenged supplies—tarps, cables, tools lashed together with salvaged wiring. Sweat slicked his skin, dust clinging to every exposed inch, the heat pressing down on him like a living thing. He barely spared Peter a glance before barking out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Comfy up there?”

Peter angled his umbrella, peering down with a lazy grin. “Incredible, really,” he said, voice dripping with mock sincerity. He lifted his polished flask in a casual toast. “Turns out food and water are highly overrated when you have the finer things in life.”

Daku’s scowl deepened, his fingers tightening around the sled’s rope. “Just keep your bloody-fuckin’ eyes peeled,” he muttered, his accent sharpening with irritation. “Don’t need that ratbag sneakin’ up and takin’ a bite out of my bloody-fuckin’ arse.”

He turned and trudged toward the distant hills, the sled dragging behind him with a slow, agonized scrape. Peter smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his flask before pouring a precise splash into a delicate glass—somehow unbroken despite the crash. He lifted it to his lips, savoring the moment like he wasn’t marooned on a planet actively trying to kill him.

Then—the blade. Cold steel against his throat.

Peter’s breath hitched. His body went still, every instinct screaming don’t move. The pressure was light but undeniable, the knife’s edge sharp enough that even the slightest shift could draw blood. The air around him changed, tightened.

Then a voice, soft, almost amused. “He’d probably get you right here.” The blade tilted, just enough to let Peter feel the danger. “Right under the bone,” Leo murmured. “Quick. Clean. You’d never hear him coming.”

Peter’s fingers twitched toward the war-pick resting across his lap, but he didn’t move. He barely breathed. Because Leo wasn’t bluffing.

Peter’s eyes flicked sideways, catching the boy’s gaze. Those too-bright green eyes—steady, unblinking, holding something that didn’t belong in a face so young. The knife didn’t waver in his hand. His grip was sure, practiced, casual in a way that turned Peter’s stomach.

Peter swallowed carefully, feeling the blade shift with the motion. “Aren’t you a little young to be playing assassin?” he asked, voice light, strained. “What’s the story, then? Did you run away from your parents, or did they run away from you?”

A flicker of something dark passed over Leo’s expression—anger? Amusement? It was gone before Peter could name it. The blade stayed where it was.

Then, after a heartbeat too long, Leo stepped back. The knife withdrew with a flick of his wrist, a smooth, deliberate motion. The tension didn’t break—it just stretched, coiled between them, an unspoken thing that settled heavy in the heat. Leo turned and walked away.

Peter let out a slow, measured breath. His hand brushed over the war-pick in his lap—too late, too useless now—but the weight of it felt like reassurance. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted the umbrella, tilting it just enough to cast his face back into shade. He exhaled, steadied himself.

Then, forcing his voice back into something closer to normal, he called after him.

“What exactly are you trying to prove, kid?”

Leo didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. The knife in his hand caught the light as he walked, glinting with every step. A warning. A promise.

Peter watched him disappear into the waves of heat, unease settling like a stone in his chest. He lifted the flask, poured another sip of sherry, and swallowed it down. It tasted bitter now.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The edge of the wreckage was quieter than anywhere else, a pocket of solitude carved into the heat and ruin. Leo sat cross-legged in the dust, her back to the others, their voices distant, muffled by the wind that swept across the barren expanse. The shadow of the hull stretched thin, barely offering relief from the twin suns, but she didn’t care.

She just needed to be alone.

The knife rested across her knee, a sliver of light catching on the steel, glinting as if it had something to say. Her hands hovered above it, fingers twitching, uncertain.

Her curls clung to her forehead, damp with sweat, itching at the back of her neck. They’d been a nuisance all day, an unwanted reminder of something she wasn’t anymore. Something she couldn’t be.

The first time she cut her hair, she’d done it with a shard of broken glass in a back alley on Taurus I, shivering, starving, her hands sticky with someone else’s blood. She’d shed her name that night too, left it behind like the curls that littered the filthy street.

Audrey had died there. Leo had crawled out of the wreckage. Now, here she was again.

Her fingers curled around the knife, steadying it despite the faint tremor in her hands. The first cut was clumsy, the blade snagging against a tangle before slicing through. A curl tumbled down, landing against the dust, dark against the pale ground. She exhaled sharply. Then she cut again.

Each slice was an act of erasure. A deliberate, necessary violence.

The curls fell in thick, heavy strands, coiling like dead things at her feet. She didn’t stop, even when sweat stung her eyes, even when her breath came short and fast. She worked until there was nothing left but uneven stubble, rough against her fingertips.

A breeze ghosted across her scalp, cool and startling, and for a moment, she felt untethered. Unmoored.

She stared down at the pile of curls, scattered like broken promises. Pieces of a girl who no longer existed. Pieces of soft hands and warm voices, of braids woven by someone long dead, of a life stolen before she ever had a chance to claim it.

Her throat tightened, but she swallowed hard, shoving the feeling down. Then, with one sharp motion, she ground her boot into the curls, sweeping them away with a harsh kick. The wind took them, lifting them into the air, scattering them across the wasteland.

She watched until they disappeared.

The knife was dull now, the edge dulled by the thick, stubborn strands it had cut through. She ran her thumb along the blade, then slipped it back into its sheath.

Leo stood slowly, brushing dust from her knees, rolling her shoulders back. She could already feel the questions rising in her mind. Did she cut enough? Would it pass? Would they see through her?

No. They wouldn’t. They saw what they expected to see—a wiry, sharp-edged boy, too young to be dangerous, too hard to be soft.

And that’s all they needed to know. She wasn’t going to tell them. Not Daku. Not Peter. Not even Namjoon. It wasn’t about trust. It was about survival.

She knew what happened to girls out here. She’d seen it. Felt it. She knew how softness got twisted, exploited, broken apart piece by piece. Leo wasn’t going to let that happen to her. Not again. Out here, softness wasn’t just a weakness. It was a death sentence.

Her green eyes flicked toward the horizon. The jagged hills stood like teeth in the distance, waiting for them. They would bring more pain. More danger. That was inevitable.

But Leo would meet them head-on. She had no other choice. Squaring her shoulders, she turned back toward the ship. The others would see her return. But they wouldn’t see her. Not really.

To them, she was just another boy. Just another survivor. Another body moving through this relentless, unforgiving world. And that was exactly how she needed it to be. Audrey was gone, scattered like dust on the wind. Leo was all that was left. And there was no space for softness now.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The rise gave way to something wrong.

Y/N had never expected to find trees—hadn’t even humored the idea. This planet was too hot, too dry, too merciless. Nothing should be growing here, least of all something as delicate as surface-dwelling vegetation. If life existed, it would be underground, hidden away from the blistering heat, surviving on whatever moisture remained trapped beneath the surface.

But what lay ahead wasn’t life at all.

It was bones.

They weren’t scattered remains or the weathered fossils of something long forgotten. No, these were enormous, structured, standing like a grotesque forest of the dead. Ribs the size of starships arched toward the sky, their jagged edges worn by time, bleached to a sickly green by lichen clinging stubbornly to their surfaces. They loomed over the wasteland, casting long, skeletal shadows that twisted and bent under the relentless double suns.

The ground beneath them was no better. Littered with shattered fragments, hollowed-out vertebrae, and the occasional half-buried skull, it was as if something had torn through this place—something big, something merciless.

The young pilgrims, Namjoon’s people, had begun to murmur prayers, their voices hushed and wavering.

“Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…”

Their reverence was tinged with unease, their steps hesitant now, their awe tempered by something much colder.

Y/N lingered at the edge of the rise, adjusting the strap of her pack with a quiet exhale. She had no desire to move forward. Whatever happened here, however long ago it had been, it wasn’t natural. This wasn’t a graveyard. A graveyard implied burial, rest, peace. This?

This was a battlefield.

Lee, of course, had no such caution. He stepped up beside her, his shotgun slung low but ready, his face streaked with sweat and dust. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was sharp, assessing. Always acting like he was in charge. Always acting like he knew best.

"This doesn’t feel right," he muttered.

Y/N barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "No kidding," she murmured, voice dry.

They reached the others just as Namjoon translated a question from one of the younger pilgrims.

“He asks what could have killed so many great things.”

No one answered.

Y/N didn’t think they wanted to know.

They moved deeper, their earlier eagerness replaced by a silent, collective caution. She reached out, running her fingers over one of the towering ribs. The grooves carved into the surface were too precise, too intentional. Not the work of time, nor of nature.

“Killing field,” she murmured, stomach twisting. “Not a graveyard.”

Lee crouched near a pile of smaller bones, picking up a fragment. He turned it over in his hands, brushing away the dust. The surface was smooth, polished by age, but the ends—the ends had been broken.

“Whatever it was,” he said grimly, “it was a long time ago.”

A little ways off, Kai drifted toward one of the massive skulls, its hollow sockets wide and empty, a monument to something long dead. The structure was vast enough to shelter them all, its surface ridged with comb-like formations. Curious, Kai pressed his palm against one of the ridges. The wind shifted, catching within the grooves.

Namjoon, unlike the others, wasn’t entirely lost in the spectacle. His gaze flicked back to Y/N, watching the way her expression remained tight, the way her fingers twitched with irritation.

“You don’t like this,” he observed quietly.

Y/N huffed out a breath. “I don’t like being here at all. This is pointless.” She cast a glance at Lee, who was still inspecting the bones like he was the first person in the universe to ever see a skeleton. “And I don’t like being dragged around by someone who acts like he’s in charge just because he’s loud and armed.”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “That’s just Lee. Cop acting like a cop.”

Y/N snorted. “Yeah, well, I didn’t sign up to be bossed around by some overzealous authority figure with a superiority complex.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Yeah, he’s a dick.” Then, after a beat, “But mostly harmless.”

She side-eyed him. “Mostly.”

He shrugged, the ghost of amusement lingering.

A pause settled between them, quieter, more thoughtful. Y/N glanced at him, debating, then sighed. “Call me Frenchie.”

Namjoon blinked. “What?”

“It’s my call sign,” she explained, shifting her weight. “Got it when I was working on the docks with my uncle, and it stuck around. All my friends and family call me. You might as well, since I actually like you.”

Namjoon’s expression softened, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Frenchie,” he repeated, testing the name with obvious care. A slow smile curved his lips. “I like it.”

Y/N nodded, satisfied.

Then Namjoon hesitated. “My mom used to call me Joon.” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “I haven’t heard it in a long time.”

Y/N looked at him, tilting her head slightly.

“She passed away a few years ago,” he admitted.

Y/N’s chest ached, just a little. She understood that feeling too well. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Namjoon nodded once, accepting, before offering her a small, sad smile. “It’s okay.”

Y/N hesitated, then said, “My parents died when I was little. My aunt and uncle raised me.”

Namjoon’s gaze met hers, understanding passing between them in the space of a heartbeat.

For a moment, they stood there, two people from different worlds, bound by quiet losses and shared irritation for the man currently barking orders at Kai like he had any authority.

Namjoon sighed. “We should probably go stop Lee from doing something stupid.”

Y/N smirked. “Or we could let him and watch what happens.”

Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. “Tempting.”

But they both knew they’d step in. Because Lee might be a pain in the ass, but he was still on their side.

A little ways off, Kai drifted toward one of the massive skulls, its hollow sockets wide and empty, a monument to something long dead. The structure was vast enough to shelter them all, its surface ridged with comb-like formations. Curious, Kai pressed his palm against one of the ridges. The wind shifted, catching within the grooves.

A low, hollow hum resonated through the bones. The sound rippled outward, vibrating through the air, sinking into their chests like a pulse of memory. It was deep, mournful—a ghost’s sigh.

Kai’s face lit up, wonder momentarily eclipsing fear. “I’ve never heard anything like this,” he said, turning toward the others, his voice tinged with awe.

His smile froze. Something moved in the skull’s shadow. A face—pale and grinning—emerged from the dark. Kai stumbled back with a strangled yelp, his hands flying up instinctively. It wasn’t a monster. It was Soobin.

He stepped from the depths of the skull, laughter bright and sharp. “Got you good,” he said, grinning.

The tension cracked—momentarily.

Lee was already moving, instincts pulling him into the cavernous space of the skull. The shadows stretched long inside, pooling in uneven recesses. Bones littered the ground, but not the smooth, time-worn ones outside.

These were fresh. Chipped. Splintered. His shotgun swept low, the muzzle nudging against a shattered fragment. The air inside the skull carried an edge, something faintly electric—like the charge before a storm.

Lee exhaled through his nose, slow. "Nothing," he muttered, but his gut said otherwise.

Outside, the group gathered near the towering ribs, unease thickening as the wind hummed through the combed ridges of the skulls, filling the air with a sound too unnatural to be ignored. The massive remains stood like silent guardians over a forgotten tragedy.

High above, Jungkook watched. He was a shadow within the bone, his body pressed into the dense curves of the cavernous skull. The faint light filtering through the ridges illuminated only fragments of him—a glint of movement, a slow, steady breath. He didn’t stir. Didn’t make a sound.

His gaze flicked over the group below. He had been tracking them for hours. From where he crouched, Y/N was the closest. She leaned against the skull’s base, fingers twisting off the spent oxygen canister at her belt. The hiss of escaping air broke the silence.

Jungkook’s grip tightened around the bone-shiv in his hand. Its jagged edge gleamed faintly, a relic carved from the remains of this place. His muscles coiled. His breath was measured. He waited. The hunt hadn’t begun yet. But soon.

Y/N shifted her weight, pressing her back against the massive skull. The warmth of the bone seeped through her clothes, and for a moment, she let herself close her eyes. Just a second—just long enough to exhale, to let the exhaustion settle beneath her ribs before she pushed forward again.

Above her, in the hollowed-out depths of the skull, Jungkook did not blink. He moved with the silence of something bred for patience, for hunting. The bone-shiv in his hand hovered steady, his fingers curling around the carved handle as he leaned forward, the comb-like ridges of the skull framing his motion.

Her hair, damp with sweat, swayed just within reach. A flick of his wrist. A whisper of steel. The blade caught a single lock, slicing it away with surgical precision. Dark strands drifted into his palm, weightless, a piece of her claimed without her ever knowing. He studied them for a moment—expression unreadable—before tucking them into the folds of his makeshift belt. A keepsake. A marker.

Below him, Y/N shifted, oblivious to how close she had come to the edge of her life. She pushed off from the skull, stretching out her sore muscles before turning. “We’d better keep moving,” she said, her voice even, but tired.

Lee’s arrival had been perfectly timed—though she had no idea how perfectly. He stood a few feet away, flask in hand, smirking beneath the sunburned grime on his face. “Care for a sip?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t alcohol supposed to dehydrate you faster?”

Lee shrugged, tipping the flask toward her. “Probably. But it makes you care a whole lot less.”

She hesitated, then took the flask anyway. The liquid burned a path down her throat, hot and punishing, but she swallowed it without complaint. She handed it back, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. The boneyard stretched behind them, vast and silent, too silent.

“We don’t want to be out here when it gets dark,” she said briskly.

Lee nodded, tucking the flask back into his jacket as they fell into step. The group ahead was just visible now, their silhouettes shrinking against the dying light.

The crunch of bone fragments beneath their boots was the only sound between them. They climbed the rise overlooking the wasteland, and then—Lee froze. He moved fast, stepping onto a rock, rifle raised, the scope pressed tight against his eye. Every muscle in his body went rigid.

Y/N felt the shift instantly. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her knife. “What is it?”

Lee didn’t answer at first. He adjusted the scope, lips pressing into a tight line.

“I thought maybe he’d double back,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “Could be trailing us.”

Y/N’s stomach coiled tight. “And?”

Lee exhaled, lowering the scope. “Nothing.” He shook his head. “Left the flask as bait. No bites.” He climbed down, his boots hitting the earth with a crunch. “Guess he’s smarter than that.”

But Lee was wrong. So, so wrong. Back in the shadows of the skull, the truth was different. The flask, once brimming with scotch, now sat empty. Its contents had been poured out—replaced with a handful of coarse, reddish sand. Carefully. Deliberately.

Jungkook crouched deep in the graveyard of bones, his body a seamless part of the ruin, woven into the wreckage of something ancient. The strands of Y/N’s hair were still tucked securely into his belt, their faint scent rising with the heat.

His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled movements, his fingers adjusting the bone shards strapped across his body like armor. He was a ghost. A specter inside the carcass of a long-dead god. Watching. Waiting. And as the group moved farther away, he smiled.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The spired hills rose like shattered teeth against the sky, jagged and sharp, their edges blurred by the feverish shimmer of heat. The ground cracked beneath the weight of the twin suns, a vast, unrelenting plain stretching between the wreckage and the emptiness beyond.

Beneath the meager shade of a tarp strung between two rusted poles, Daku worked in silence.

Each swing of the pickaxe landed with a dull, defiant thud, the ground resisting him at every turn. This planet didn’t want to give up its dead.

A few yards away, the bodies lay wrapped in scavenged cloth. The makeshift shrouds clung awkwardly, shifting slightly in the breeze, as if reluctant to settle. A corner of one cloth lifted—just enough to reveal the curve of a hand, frozen in stillness—before the wind set it back down, as if even the air knew better than to disturb the dead.

Daku didn’t look at them. He didn’t have to. Their presence pressed against his skin, heavy as the heat, heavy as guilt. He drove the pickaxe into the ground again, his muscles burning, his breath ragged. The wreckage of the ship loomed behind him, twisted metal stark against the sky. It felt farther away than it was, separated by more than just distance.

Movement at the edge of his vision made him pause. Bindi stood in the shadow of the ship, watching. She lifted a hand in a slow, deliberate wave. Daku raised his own in return. A small gesture. Too heavy for what it was. But enough. Then he turned back to the earth.

The ground cracked beneath his next swing, reluctant but yielding. The rhythm of digging gave him something to focus on—something other than the weight pressing at the edges of his mind.

“Daku.”

Bindi’s voice carried across the dead landscape, firm but quiet.

He didn’t stop. “You need something?”

She stepped closer, hands on her hips, her presence solid, steady. “You good out here?”

Daku leaned against the shovel, wiping sweat from his brow. His voice came out rough. Flat. “Depends. How good does digging graves in an oven sound to you?”

Bindi snorted. “You could take a break, you know.”

“They deserve better than that,” Daku muttered. No room for argument.

Bindi didn’t try.

She stood there for a moment, gaze lingering, unreadable. Then she turned and disappeared back into the wreckage, leaving him alone with the dust, the heat, and the dead.

Daku worked until his muscles ached, until his hands blistered, until the trench was deep enough to matter.

Then, finally, he turned to the first body. The cloth fluttered slightly as he crouched beside it. Too light. That was the first thing he noticed. The weight was all wrong, the shape beneath the fabric too empty. His breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t let it settle. Didn’t let himself think.

He lifted the body carefully, arms straining as he carried it to the grave. Lowered it into the earth like it meant something.

A breath. A pause. The world around him held still, as if watching. He swallowed hard, then reached for the shovel.

The first shovelful of dirt hit with a dull thud. Then another. Then another. The sound of finality. The sound of something being buried that would never be dug up again.

When it was done, he stepped back, brushing dust from his palms. It wasn’t much. But it was enough. The sound of footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Bindi.

“You need help?” she asked.

Daku shook his head. “I’ve got it.”

She didn’t argue. She just stood there with him, both of them framed against the endless, indifferent horizon. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was everything they couldn’t say. Everything they’d lost. Everything they still had left to lose. Daku exhaled, his gaze fixed on the hills in the distance. The sun was sinking, but the heat never left.

“They’ll rest easier now,” Bindi murmured.

Daku tightened his grip on the shovel. “Let’s hope we can say the same for us.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The canyon yawned ahead, its ribbed spires stretching toward the twin suns like the remains of some ancient beast, clawing at the sky in its final death throes. Heat shimmered off the cracked earth, turning the horizon into something warped and restless. The silence was thick, not the absence of sound, but the kind that pressed in on all sides, heavy with the unshakable feeling that something was watching.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her pack, fingers brushing absently over the worn hilt of her knife as she scanned the terrain. Every step felt heavier, dragged down not just by exhaustion, but by the weight of the stillness.

Ahead, Yeonjun suddenly crouched, his voice low but urgent.

"Captain… Captain!"

Y/N was at his side in seconds, her brow furrowing as she followed his gaze. Half-buried in the dirt was something small and round, coated in dust and split slightly down the middle. At first, it looked like some alien fruit—leathery, weathered, its exposed core stringy and fibrous.

The Chrislams gathered close, murmuring in soft Saramic, their voices tinged with something fragile—hope.

"Could it be food?" one of them asked. "Something edible?"

Y/N brushed the dirt away, fingers tracing the rough, familiar stitching. The realization sank in like a stone dropping into deep water. She lifted it slowly, turning it over in her palm.

Her voice was flat when she spoke. "It’s a baseball."

The murmurs stopped. The small circle of bodies tensed, shoulders tightening, breath catching. The dirt-smudged ball sat in her palm like an artifact from another world. In a way, it was.

Namjoon stepped closer, the usual calm in his eyes sharpening into something watchful. He scanned the canyon’s winding path, his voice measured but weighted.

“We are not alone here, yes?”

Y/N didn’t answer, but her grip on the ball tightened.

Behind her, Lee shifted, his rifle held easy but ready, the sharp cut of his jaw betraying his unease. His fingers brushed the scope, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Never thought we were,” he muttered, the resignation in his tone carrying something else beneath it. Something like readiness.

The canyon widened, opening into a plateau that led toward the spired hills. And there—standing against the base of the jagged rock formations—was a settlement. Or what was left of one.

Rust-streaked shipping containers, stacked into makeshift buildings, leaned into each other like forgotten bones. Tattered sunshades, barely clinging to their rusted poles, flapped weakly in the heated wind, their edges frayed and curling.

The group stopped.

Namjoon moved first, stepping forward with a reverence that didn’t match the decay before them.

"Assalamu alaikum!" Yeonjun called, his voice carrying across the empty space, bouncing off the metal walls.

Nothing. No answer.

Lee peeled off toward a rusted-out moisture-recovery unit, crouching near the battered jugs scattered at its base. He picked one up, shook it. Nothing. Just a hollow rattle of grit inside brittle plastic.

“They ran out,” he said grimly, setting the jug down with finality.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered on the machine, his voice quiet. “Water,” he murmured. “Once, there was water here.”

The pilgrims sank to their knees, hands raised, their voices rising in unison. Allahu Akbar. The sound filled the empty settlement, a prayer swallowed by the bones of a place long past saving.

Y/N watched from the outskirts, the weight of the baseball still heavy in her grip. The prayers filled the space, but they didn’t fill her. Her gaze drifted to the shipping containers. Too still. Too empty. She moved toward one, her steps careful, deliberate. The doors hung crooked, their rusted hinges straining against time. She pushed one open.

Inside, the remains of lives left behind: A tipped-over chair. A rusted lantern. A faint, smeared handprint on the wall.

Y/N dragged her fingers along the broken edge of a table. Her voice was quiet, more to herself than anyone else.

“What happened here?” Lee’s voice, closer than she expected.

“Doesn’t look like they had much of a choice,” he said, gesturing to the scattered jugs, the rusted-out machinery. “This place dried up.”

Namjoon’s voice broke through the weight of the silence. "We search. See what remains."

The group spread out, their movements slow, careful. The air was thick, heavy with something unspoken. Y/N turned the baseball over in her hands, a cold certainty settling deep in her chest.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The air inside the structure was stale—not just old, but abandoned. A vacuum where life had once existed and then receded, leaving only the sediment of its passing. The particulate composition of the dust—fine, unbothered—told Y/N that no one had been in here for years.

She stepped forward, careful with her weight distribution, feeling the floor shift just slightly under her boots. Disuse. Wood degradation. Subsurface rot. The building wouldn’t collapse under her, but it was tired.

She cataloged details as she moved—mental notes stacking like research entries in her mind. The table in the center of the room: wooden, refectory-style, approximately two meters in length. Surface dull with oxidized grime. Deep scratches. Cup rings. The wood had absorbed more than just liquid over time—it had absorbed history.

The walls bore framed images—early settlers, hands dirt-streaked and competent, smiling children, a boy gripping a baseball bat. Domesticity in an unrelenting world. A psychological anchor. And yet, they were gone. The structures stood, the ghosts remained, but the people who built them—who bent this world to their will—had vanished.

Where?

Y/N moved deeper inside, her fingertips trailing along the tabletop’s edge. Oil deposits in the grain. Sweat, grease—human residue. She withdrew her hand quickly, as if touching the past too much might make it real again.

She reached for the wall, searching by muscle memory for a switch. “Lights,” she muttered, though she already knew—futility.

Her hand skimmed rough plaster—no switches, no panels. Not even the residual tackiness of adhesive where something had been ripped away. No artificial power grid at all.

Her mind started turning. She moved toward a window, the fabric blackout blinds stiff under her fingers. Why blackouts? She yanked them back, expecting the room to flood with sunlight—

A face stared back. Y/N jerked backward, pulse spiking. Her breath hitched before recognition caught up. Lee. Standing just beyond the glass, his features cut sharp by the exterior glare. He grinned, bemused, almost lazy.

"Try not to get lost in there," he said through the window, voice muffled.

She exhaled sharply, tension bleeding from her muscles. A short, nervous laugh escaped her as she nodded. "Not planning to," she called back.

Lee gave a small wave and stepped away, disappearing into the light. She was alone again. But the silence inside the building had shifted. A creak from behind her.

Y/N pivoted, knife half-drawn, instincts running ahead of her thoughts. Something in the corner caught the light. An orrery.

It sat on a low table, its frame dulled with oxidation but intact. She took a slow, deliberate step forward. The gears inside clicked, stuttered, then began to turn.

The device came to life. Tiny planets, caught in orbits dictated by age-old mechanics, began to move. Uneven. Jerky. The largest celestial body, positioned where a primary sun should be, pulsed faintly—bathed in a perpetual glow.

Y/N stilled. No darkness. Her fingers brushed the frame. "No darkness," she murmured. "No lights, because… no darkness." Her scientific mind caught the pattern before her gut did. Something prickled at the base of her skull. A realization forming too slow to stop the chill crawling up her spine. She turned sharply, stepped back into the sunlight.

The porch creaked beneath her boots, the glare of the twin suns almost too much after the dim interior. She squinted, eyes scanning the barren land for movement.

Then—a flicker. Far out, something glinted. Not naturally. A deliberate reflection. Her breath caught. She moved fast, pushing past a line of laundry still clinging to rusted wire, the faded fabric brushing her arms as she pushed forward.

The glint again. She broke into a jog.The ground crunched beneath her boots, fractured stone and sand shifting as she reached the source— A skiff. Partially buried in the desert’s hungry mouth.

Y/N’s pulse pounded. The fabric wings, tattered and skeletal, flapped weakly in the wind. The hull, sleek despite its damage, bore faded markings—symbols etched by a language older than the ruins around it.

A vessel. A departure. Or an arrival. Her fingers traced the surface—metal, pitted and worn, but solid. Heat radiated from it, even in the already blistering environment. Residual energy storage? Possible thermovoltaic components? Her heart stuttered.

"Allahu Akbar," she whispered, voice trembling between awe and calculation.

She didn’t believe in miracles. But she believed in science. And the science told her one thing: Someone else had been here.

The others caught up within minutes, their footsteps crunching against the fractured ground, but Y/N barely registered them. Her mind was already dissecting, calculating, breaking down the skiff in front of her.

Namjoon reached her first, his approach slow, deliberate—a reverence she couldn’t afford. He placed a hand on the hull, fingers splayed over the scarred metal, his eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. A prayer. A plea. The Chrislams behind him murmured their own, their voices threading through the air like a quiet current of faith. Y/N wasn’t praying. She was analyzing.

Her fingers traced the hull, mapping out the pitting from sand erosion, the carbon scoring along the intake vents, the microfractures spiderwebbing across the surface. Heat residue. That meant energy retention. That meant—

"Think it’ll fly?" Lee’s voice broke through her thoughts. He stood just behind her, rifle slung loose, his gaze sweeping over the vessel with a mix of hope and skepticism.

She exhaled sharply, tilting her head, already formulating possibilities, probabilities, limitations. "I don’t know," she admitted, but the words thrilled her. Not in uncertainty, but in possibility.

Her hands moved instinctively, pushing against the skiff’s frame, testing its stability, density, material integrity. The hull composition felt wrong—light but strong, too smooth to be traditional alloys. Not purely terrestrial. Some kind of composite—low-weight, high-tensile resilience.

The intake vents told her more—angled for atmospheric entry, but the heat scoring was shallow. This thing hadn’t been through a rough descent. It hadn’t crashed. It had landed. Her pulse ticked up, the rush of discovery washing over her, every neuron firing at once.

"This isn’t just wreckage," she muttered under her breath. "It was left here."

Lee frowned. "What are you saying?"

She stepped back, surveying the machine as a whole, not just its parts. "Scorch patterns are too controlled for a crash. The way the sand's drifted against it—it's been here a while, but not long enough for total burial. And the material—" she pressed her palm flat against the hull "—it’s still holding latent heat. That means an energy core. That means—"

Lee caught on before she even finished. His breath left him in a short, sharp laugh. "—it might have power," he finished.

Y/N nodded, her mind already racing ahead. If there was power, there was a chance. The skiff wasn’t just a symbol of escape. It was a machine—a problem to solve, a system to understand, a puzzle begging for hands smart enough to unlock it.

For the first time in too long, she felt the familiar pull—not just survival, not just endurance, but science.

"If we can get inside, if the controls are intact, if we can access the core—" she turned to Namjoon, who was still watching her, still measuring her words against his faith.

"We might not be stuck here after all."

The group fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for the verdict. Y/N’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms, not in doubt but in determination. For the first time in days, she wasn’t just reacting to survival. She was chasing it.

She looked up, toward the endless stretch of sky. For once, it didn’t feel like a ceiling. It felt like a destination.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Perched atop the ruined ship, Peter reclined in the only way Peter could—utterly unbothered, delicately indulgent, as if this wasteland was nothing more than a minor inconvenience to his standard of living. A toast point rested between two fingers, smeared with glistening caviar, because apparently, nothing—not even being marooned on a hostile planet—could persuade him to lower his standards.

The heat wavered in thick, rippling waves, and yet Peter sat immaculate, his linen trousers untouched by dust, grime, or the creeping dread curling at the edges of reality.

He lifted the toast toward his lips, prepared for the luxury of a bite, when— Scrabbling.

Soft. Imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t listening. A faint, almost instinctual sound. Dirt shifting. Small rocks tumbling. The suggestion of movement.

Peter froze. The toast hovered, suspended between indulgence and survival, as he tilted his head toward the edge of the ship. His sharp gaze narrowed. His hand lowered the toast with slow, deliberate precision onto a neatly folded napkin. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, brushed nonexistent dust from his trousers, and peered over the side.

Nothing. Just the dirt ramp, the heat waves, the small rocks still rolling a little too lazily, as if something—or someone—had climbed up. A muscle ticked in Peter’s jaw.

"This," he muttered under his breath, voice edged with his usual dry sarcasm, "now qualifies as the worst fun I’ve ever had. Stop it."

The wasteland offered no reply. The silence was thick, viscous, wrapping around him, pressing against his skin. The heat crackled off the ship’s hull, and suddenly, the toast and caviar felt obscenely misplaced.

Peter grabbed his war-pick—the ornate, polished relic, absurd in his hands, its weight foreign despite its promise of violence. He descended cautiously, every footstep deliberate, scanning the fractured shadows of the hull.

Still—nothing. His pulse was too fast. He did not like this.

“Leo?” Peter’s voice was low, edged with tension. "Oh, Leo… if this is one of your charming pranks—"

A voice rang out.

“What?”

Peter nearly dropped the war-pick. Leo’s voice was too casual, too far away. That meant—whatever had been up there with him, hadn’t been Leo. Cold certainty locked around Peter’s spine.

His tension sharpened into movement, feet carrying him faster now, deeper into the ship’s fractured belly, where he found Leo and Bindi, elbow-deep in a stubborn storage container, dirt streaking their faces. Both looked up, annoyed.

"Tell me that was you," Peter snapped, his grip tightening on the war-pick.

Leo’s brows furrowed. “Okay, sure, it was me. What’d I do now?”

"You’re assailing my fragile sense of security, that’s what,” Peter shot back. His voice cracked—just slightly—betraying his nerves.

Bindi straightened, her sharp gaze zeroing in. “He’s been right here, mate," she said, unimpressed. "What are you going on about?"

Peter opened his mouth, but— A shadow moved. A flicker across the fractured beams of sunlight slicing through the hull. The three of them froze. The air thickened, pressing in on all sides.

“Daku?” Bindi called, voice tight.

No response.

Leo darted to a narrow crack in the hull, pressing his face to the dusty glass. His breath fogged the surface as his gaze locked onto something.

Daku. Outside, hunched over the graves. Moving slow. Deliberate. Leo’s voice dropped to a whisper. His lips barely moved when he spoke the name they had all been avoiding.

"Jungkook."

Peter went rigid. The war-pick slipped in his sweaty grip. Bindi didn’t hesitate—she ripped the weapon from his hands in one clean motion, her body already moving, her muscles tensed like a spring waiting to snap. Leo followed, boomerang gripped like a lifeline.

The shadows deepened. The air grew heavier. And then—he appeared. Bindi swung first. Her aim was perfect—too perfect. The war-pick sliced through the air— and missed.

“No—!" Leo’s voice cracked. Panic ripped through him.

The man staggered back, arms raised defensively. Not Jungkook. Sunburned skin, blistered raw. A gaunt frame, weak, trembling. He clutched the lever of an emergency cryo-locker, his breath ragged, desperate.

"I thought—" he rasped, voice hoarse. Relief bloomed across his face. His eyes darted over them, hopeful, human, just a survivor—

The gunshot tore through the moment. Louder than the wind, louder than the sky. The bullet hit center mass. Blood sprayed across Bindi’s arm. The man’s body jerked, crumpled. His eyes went wide, confusion etched into his sunburned features before the light in them went out. A single breath. Then silence.

The group turned. Daku stood yards away, pistol still raised. His hands trembled. His chest rose and fell too fast.

"I thought it was him," Daku stammered. His voice cracked, unraveling. "The murdering ratbag. I thought—"

Leo’s face was ashen. His throat bobbed as he whispered, "He was just somebody else."

Daku’s gaze dropped. His hands fell limp at his sides. The pistol slipped from his fingers, clattering against the dirt. His knees buckled. His voice—wrecked, broken, crumbling.

“I thought it was him.”

And in the shadows behind the graves Jungkook watched. Still. Calculating. Amused. The goggles over his eyes caught the light, glinting. For a breath, he lingered, his gaze flicking to the breather strapped to Daku’s chest. Assessing. Weighing. Measuring. Then—like smoke he was gone. Leaving behind nothing. Just the echo of his presence and the weight of a mistake they could never take back.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The skiff crouched on the cracked earth like a carcass picked clean by time. Its fabric wings, once sleek and functional, hung in limp surrender, their edges frayed by wind and heat. The sand had already started reclaiming it, creeping up the landing gear, seeping into every exposed seam. Whatever this ship had been, whatever mission had left it here, was long over.

But it still had answers.

Y/N dropped from the cockpit, her boots crunching against the gritty surface below. She straightened, brushing sand off her hands, her mind already unraveling the mystery beneath the wreckage.

“No juice,” she called over her shoulder. Dead cells, fried circuits, a nest of corroded wiring—this thing hadn’t powered on in years.

Lee stood a few yards away, rifle slung over one shoulder in that lazy-but-ready way of his. He was watching her work, but also watching everything else.

“Controls are fried,” she continued, fingers running over the sun-bleached hull, searching. “Wiring’s a mess, but maybe we could adapt—”

“Shut up.”

Lee’s voice was sharp, cutting through her sentence like a blade. His hand came up, commanding silence. Y/N froze. Not because he had spoken—Lee was an ass, and abrupt orders weren’t new—but because of how he had said it.

His entire posture had shifted. The lazy stance was gone. His body was tight, coiled, head tilted slightly—like a wolf catching the scent of something just out of sight. Predator mode. Y/N’s stomach knotted.

“What?” she asked, voice low.

Lee didn’t answer immediately. His eyes swept the horizon, scanning the jagged rock formations, the dunes shifting lazily under the heat. The air around them felt wrong. Too still. Too heavy. Like the world itself had paused, waiting for something to happen. Y/N’s fingers drifted toward her knife, her pulse accelerating.

“Like my pistola,” Lee muttered.

Y/N frowned. He was hearing gunfire?

No—not gunfire. Something else. Before she could ask, the silence fractured. A sound—soft, metallic, deliberate. Like a latch being tested. Like steel on steel. Like someone was inside the skiff. Y/N’s grip tightened. She glanced at Lee. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He heard it too.

“From the ship?” she whispered.

“Maybe.” His voice was clipped, low. “Or it could be him.”

Jungkook. The name didn’t need to be spoken aloud—his presence was a constant shadow, thick and inescapable. Even when he wasn’t there, he was. A shiver traced down Y/N’s spine, but she swallowed it. Fear wouldn’t help. Answers would. Her focus snapped back to the skiff.

If she could find a serial number, a registry plate, even a manufacturer’s mark, she could start piecing this together. Where had it come from? Who left it here? And more importantly—what planet were they even on? She ran her hands over the hull, searching.

The paint was stripped, the weathering extreme, but beneath the peeling surface, she spotted a faint etching—small, almost invisible, tucked just beneath the intake vent.

Her pulse spiked. Identification markings. Y/N dropped to her knees, yanking out her multi-tool. The tip of the blade scraped carefully over the surface, clearing away grit and oxidation. There. Her brain moved fast.

“PT-221…” she whispered, deciphering the numbers as they appeared. A familiar format.

“This is a personnel transport skiff.”

Lee glanced toward her, but his focus was still half-outward, scanning the horizon. “That mean anything?”

Y/N exhaled hard, her mind racing.

“PT-series ships were manufactured in the Helion System. Specifically” —she brushed away more dirt—“On Prime. However, this one looks weird. An older model from Aguerra Prime or Earth. I'd sixty years, but there's a lot of copycat rebuilds out there. Depending on where we are, it's unlikely that anyone would leave a ship for sixty years with no plan of retrieving it.”

That meant something huge. If this skiff had been manufactured in the Helion System or any of the others that she mentioned, then it had originated from human-inhabited space. That meant they were somewhere mapped. Somewhere reachable. Which meant—they weren’t lost. Not completely.

“This is good, Lee,” she said, voice breathless with revelation. “If I can get into the onboard system—if the black box is still intact—we might be able to pull location logs. Nav data. Even a distress signal history.”

Lee wasn’t looking at her. His grip had shifted on his rifle, tighter. His jaw clenched. Y/N’s excitement fractured.

“Lee,” She barely whispered it.

He didn’t blink. His face was off. For a second, Y/N thought it was just the heat. The pale sheen on his forehead, the way his fingers flexed against the grip of his rifle—subtle signs of dehydration, maybe, or just the endless tension grinding them all down to bone. But then she really looked.

His breathing was wrong. Not labored, exactly, but uneven, like his body was reacting to something before his brain could catch up. His pupils looked a little blown, his skin too clammy for the dry heat pressing down on them. He was sweating, but not the normal kind. A slow, cold kind. Like someone had just ripped a secret out of his chest.

"Lee." Y/N’s voice dropped an octave, sharp with something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name. "What’s wrong?"

No answer. His jaw flexed. His fingers twitched, just once, against the trigger guard. Y/N’s stomach twisted. She barely had time to register it—to react, to decide if she should be worried or just pissed off—before Lee suddenly exhaled hard, shook himself like a man breaking out of a fog.

Then, just like that, his entire expression changed. The tension? Gone. The weird, distant look? Gone. He rolled his shoulders, blinked twice like shaking off a bad dream, then turned toward her with forced nonchalance.

“Sorry—what?” His voice was too normal, too casual, like he hadn’t just short-circuited mid-thought. “Say that again?”

Y/N stared at him. His breath was steadier now. His hand had relaxed on the rifle, no longer clenching like he was waiting for something to spring out of the dark.

But his skin still looked a little too pale under the sunburn. His lips pressed together too tightly. Like he knew she had clocked it. Like he was daring her to push the issue. Y/N narrowed her eyes but didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, she rolled her eyes and turned back to the skiff. "Nothing important, Lee. Just, you know, information that might actually save our lives."

She dropped to her knees again, blade scraping against the etchings on the hull, scanning for anything else. Serial numbers, flight logs—hell, even a maintenance sticker would help. Something to tell her where the hell this thing had come from. Because if she could figure that out, then maybe she could figure out where the hell they were.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The grave site shimmered under the twin suns, the heat so thick it seemed to press against Daku’s chest with every breath. The ground cracked beneath his boots as he dragged the dead man’s body across the dirt, the sled groaning under the weight.

The sound was grating, a harsh scrape against the silence, but the world swallowed it whole. Daku was alone.

The shipwreck loomed behind him, just out of sight, the sun-tarp sagging under the oppressive weight of dead air. The shade did nothing. It just made the place feel more hollow.

He braced himself, hands on his knees, and tried to ignore the way his lungs felt like sandpaper. Sweat burned down his back, soaking into the fabric of his shirt, but he didn’t stop.

The grave wasn’t deep. Couldn’t be. The ground was fighting him, resisting every strike of the shovel like it didn’t want to give up its dead.

Then he saw it. Something in the dirt. Daku froze. Half-buried at the bottom of the shallow grave, nestled beneath the loose soil, was an opening. Not just a crack in the earth. Not a burrow. Something else. Too smooth. Too deliberate.

He knelt, breath hitching, his fingers brushing over the edges of the hole. The walls were lined with something fibrous, a texture that wasn’t quite plant, wasn’t quite animal. Dried husks, webbed together in intricate layers. Organic, but wrong.

His stomach twisted. He reached for the handlight clipped to his belt, flicking it on. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating the tunnel’s slope.

The walls reflected faintly. Not like rock, not like dirt—something else. Something that almost looked wet. Then the smell hit him. Acrid. Chemical. Like something had been burned too clean, stripped too sterile.

Daku tilted the light. The tunnel curved downward, disappearing into a place the light couldn’t reach. And then—it moved. Not the tunnel. Something inside it. A ripple. Small at first. Then again. Daku’s heart slammed against his ribs. At first, it looked like shadow, just the way the light played against the uneven walls.

But then he realized it wasn’t the light moving It was something in the dark. Something that was watching him. Then it lunged.

The edges of the burrow split apart with a wet, tearing sound. Like flesh peeling open. A tendril shot out, fast—too fast. It wrapped around Daku’s wrist, cold, slick, unnervingly strong. Panic detonated through him.

He yanked back instinctively, but the thing was stronger. Its grip tightened, pulling him toward the tunnel. Daku screamed. His free hand fumbled for his pistol, but his fingers couldn’t get a grip. The thing’s skin—if you could call it that—was slick, shifting, like oil trying to hold a shape.

Finally, his hand closed around the gun. He fired. The shot shattered the silence. The muzzle flash lit up the hole for a split second, and in that moment, Daku saw it.

Not just a tendril. Not just something reaching. A mass. It was writhing, growing, expanding from the darkness. Daku fired again, his pulse a drumbeat in his skull. The tendril spasmed, rippling like disturbed water. The grip loosened.

Back at the ship, Peter flinched so hard the toast point in his hand toppled, caviar-first, onto the dusty hull. He stared at it. Then at the horizon. Then back at the toast. Then back at the horizon. His mind scrambled for an answer that didn’t exist.

Leo’s head snapped up, boomerang held tight, his knuckles bloodless against the grip.

“That was a gunshot,” he whispered. Like they needed the reminder.

Bindi didn’t hesitate. She dropped into a crouch, war-pick in hand, her eyes locked onto the grave site. Something had happened. Something bad.

Peter scrambled down the side of the ship, his usual swagger gone.

“Tell me that wasn’t just me,” he said, voice pitched too high. “You heard it, right? I’m not going mad?”

Bindi didn’t even look at him. Her focus was all horizon, all muscle, her expression unreadable.

“Course I bloody heard it.” Her voice was clipped, sharp. “The question is, what are we gonna do about it?”

Leo swallowed hard. “That was Daku, wasn’t it?” His voice cracked. “It has to be him.”

Bindi’s head snapped toward him. “Don’t assume.” Her voice was hard, commanding, no room for argument. She rose from her crouch, grip shifting on the war-pick. “Could be anything,” she said. “Or anyone.” A beat. “We stay sharp.”

Leo’s green eyes flickered with something raw. His grip tightened.

“If it wasn’t him…” His voice was barely audible now. “…Then what?”

Peter opened his mouth, ready to quip, ready to deflect—but the look in Bindi’s eyes stopped him cold. She wasn’t joking. This was real.

He shifted uncomfortably, licking his lips, eyes darting toward the ship. “I’m just saying… maybe we think before running headlong into—” He gestured vaguely. “Whatever that was.”

Bindi cut him off.

“Stay here.” Leo flinched, but Bindi didn’t soften. “If anything moves that isn’t me or Daku,” she said, “you scream like the world’s ending.”

Peter opened his mouth again, but she was already moving, slipping toward the gravesite, war-pick held ready. Leo and Peter watched her go. The heat rippled around her, warping the horizon into something unreal.

Leo exhaled sharply, crouching beside Peter, boomerang in a death grip. “…Do you think it’s him?”

Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His gaze was locked on the grave site. Because something was wrong. He could feel it. Finally, he swallowed, dragging a hand down his face.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He glanced toward the horizon, his brow furrowing. “But whatever it is…” His voice dropped. “…It’s close. Too close.”

The second gunshot shattered the graveyard’s silence, the sharp crack tearing through the thick, suffocating heat. The bullet found its mark.

A tendril snapped apart in midair, black ichor spraying outward in a violent arc, sizzling where it struck the dry earth. The air reeked instantly—something acidic, chemical, a stench that clung to the back of Daku’s throat, making his eyes water.

But the thing didn’t stop. The next tendril lashed out, wrapping around his calf before he could react. Then it pulled.

Daku hit the ground hard, his back slamming against the dirt with a dull thud. His breath ripped from his lungs, the wind knocked out of him as he slid toward the gaping burrow.

The thing wasn’t just strong. It was fast. He aimed blind—fired blind, his pistol flashing bright in the gloom. The muzzle flare lit up the nightmare for half a second.

A tangle of limbs. Writhing. Folding in on itself. Not solid. Not liquid. Something in between. The bullets tore through it, but it didn’t bleed right. It shuddered—jerked, rippled like disturbed water—but the tendrils kept coming.

One sliced across his chest, razor-thin but unforgiving, carving deep into his skin. Daku gritted his teeth against the pain, his vision blurring at the edges. His free hand scrambled for purchase, fingers clawing at the dirt, but the earth beneath him was giving way.

The grave was getting deeper. Or maybe he was just getting pulled in. His boots dug into the edge, small rocks tumbling down into the void below. Daku kept shooting, kept fighting, even as his grip weakened.

Another shot. Then—something different. One bullet hit deep. Not just flesh. Something inside it. The thing jerked back for a split second, a violent convulsion rolling through its mass.

Daku felt a spark of hope. But hope never lasted long on this planet. The creature lurched forward with renewed fury, its remaining tendrils snapping around his arms, his waist, his throat.

Everything constricted at once. His lungs spasmed. His vision narrowed. The last scream he tried to release died before it even left his throat.

His gun slipped from his fingers, tumbling into the abyss. Daku was going under. The ground crumbled beneath him. His boots skidded, slipped- Then he was gone. Yanked down. Swallowed whole.

The grave collapsed inward. The dirt settled. The sled sat untouched, its cargo neatly stacked, as if nothing had happened at all.

Overhead, the twin suns burned on. Their heat didn’t care. Their light reached everywhere. Except down there.

Deep in the burrow’s black throat, something shifted. The sound was wet, sickly, like flesh being pulled apart and put back together again. The darkness pressed down, thick and suffocating, as something dragged itself deeper. The creature retreated, its tendrils folding inward, pulling Daku’s motionless body into the abyss.

Deeper. Deeper. The light from the surface faded to nothing. The planet consumed him whole. And the silence that followed was final.

The ground burned through Bindi’s boots, the heat relentless, but she didn’t feel it. She sprinted across the packed, unforgiving earth, her breath tearing from her throat in ragged gasps. The twin suns bore down, their light merciless, the air thick and smothering, clinging to her skin like a second, unwelcome layer.

The makeshift sun-tarp came into view, its edges flapping against the crooked poles, the sound barely a whisper over the thunder in her chest.

She felt it before she saw it. Something was wrong. Bindi skidded to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust. The world tilted slightly, her stomach dropping as she yanked the fabric aside—

And froze. Jungkook was standing there. Still. Silent. Waiting.

He was on the far side of the grave, body eerily relaxed, one hand hanging loosely at his side. In it, a bone-shiv. The blade gleamed faintly, catching the light in a way that shouldn’t have felt threatening—but did.

He didn’t flinch at her arrival. Didn’t step back. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, the slight tilt of his head the only indication that he even acknowledged her presence.

His goggles hid his eyes, but Bindi felt them—felt the weight of his stare like a blade against her ribs. Her gaze dropped and her lungs locked. The grave was empty.

The sled overturned, its contents scattered across the dirt like the remnants of a struggle. Blood smeared the earth, thick, dark, soaking into the fractured ground.

And at the bottom of the pit, something worse. A hole. No—a burrow.

Its edges weren’t normal, weren’t clean or mechanical or natural. The fibrous lining trembled, quivering like raw nerve endings, as if the planet itself had breathed a wound open.

Bindi’s body went cold, even as sweat stung her eyes.

She saw it then- Daku’s boot. Just the boot. Lying a few inches from the grave’s edge. Torn. Scuffed. One lace half-untied, like he’d been dragged right out of it.

Her scream tore through the air. "Daku!" Her voice broke, raw, desperate. "DAKU!" The grave swallowed the sound.

Jungkook still hadn’t moved. The silence around him was louder than her cries, pressing down like a living thing.

Bindi’s hand tightened around the war-pick, both hands now clutching it as though it could anchor her, keep her from falling into the same void. Her chest heaved, her throat aching from the scream, but her rage cut through the fear like a blade through flesh.

Her voice shook, but her fury didn’t. "What did you do?"

Jungkook tilted his head, lips barely twitching. A smirk. Or maybe not. Maybe just a reflex, something almost human, but Bindi knew better. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even acknowledge the accusation.

Her gaze snapped back to the grave—the blood, the torn earth, the quivering maw of the burrow. Something else had been here. Something alive. Something that wasn’t Jungkook.

Her breath hitched, the pieces snapping together in her mind with the speed of pure, visceral instinct. "What is down there?"

It wasn’t a question for him—it was a question for herself. Jungkook finally spoke, his voice low, measured, almost curious.

"Not me."

The words crawled under her skin. Her legs weakened. The hole at the bottom of the grave pulsed faintly. Bindi felt it. Like it was waiting.

Jungkook flicked his head toward the burrow—a gesture so small, so deliberate, it made her stomach lurch. He wasn’t explaining himself. He was telling her to look. Telling her to understand.

Her fingers tightened around the war-pick’s handle. And then—she broke. Her scream ripped from her throat, raw and violent.

"Liar!"

The word shook the air. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t deny it. He just turned. His body moved fluidly, like an animal slipping back into the shadows, a creature untouched by morality, by fear, by regret. And he walked away.

Bindi stood there, breathing hard, hands shaking, staring at the grave like it might come alive beneath her feet. It already had. And whatever had taken Daku was still there.

Waiting. Watching. Hungry. Her chest heaved, her grip white-knuckled on the war-pick. The silence returned, heavier now, an oppressive weight of knowing. And she thought, for the first time, that maybe the real question wasn’t what happened to Daku. Maybe the real question was— How much time did they have left before it came back for them too?

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Jungkook ran.

His body moved like liquid through rock, weaving through the towering spires that clawed at the sky like the fossilized ribs of some ancient, long-dead colossus. The terrain twisted violently, sharp-edged canyons and jagged drops designed to kill the unskilled, but Jungkook flowed through them without hesitation. Every step was measured, every movement deliberate, his muscles adjusting instinctively to the unpredictable ground beneath him.

The planet breathed heat and silence, thick and watchful, as if the land itself was waiting for the inevitable collision between predator and prey.

The boots behind him never stopped. Lee was close. His footsteps were methodical, unhurried despite the speed, a hunter keeping his quarry exactly where he wanted it. Then—

CRACK.

A gunshot split the air, shattering the fragile quiet. Jungkook felt it before he registered the pain—a sharp, white-hot kiss slicing across his shoulder. The impact sent him off balance, his body crashing into the ground in a violent sprawl.

Dust exploded around him, thick and blinding. He tumbled, skidding hard, his skin tearing against the brutal terrain. His lungs seized, inhaling grit as his momentum carried him forward—too fast, too out of control—until his body came to a bone-rattling stop.

Jungkook braced, muscles tensed to spring back up, keep moving, keep running— He never got the chance.

A boot slammed onto the back of his neck. Hard. Hard enough to rattle his teeth. The force drove him down, his face pressing into the burning dirt, the rough grit scraping against his cheek. His fingers twitched, instinct clawing at his spine, screaming at him to fight, fight, fight, but the weight was unrelenting.

Lee. Jungkook didn’t need to look. Didn’t need to see the satisfied smirk he knew was on the bastard’s face. Didn’t need to hear his smug, infuriating drawl to know exactly what was coming next.

“Same crap, different planet, huh?”

Jungkook’s breath came shallow and steady, his muscles coiled like a trap waiting to spring. The heat of the twin suns pressed against his exposed skin, but it wasn’t what burned.

Lee leaned in, his boot grinding just a little harder against Jungkook’s spine. “You’re fast. I’ll give you that.” A casual chuckle, like they were discussing the weather and not locked in a decades-long, vicious game of hunt-or-be-hunted. “But you should’ve figured it out by now—” He bent closer, his breath warm against the back of Jungkook’s neck. “You can’t outrun me.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his breath still even, controlled. Lee wasn’t invincible. No one was.

Lee shifted slightly, his shotgun gleaming in the sunlight, still pointed directly at Jungkook’s skull. “I’ll admit,” he continued, his voice dropping to something almost amused, “for a second there, you almost had me. Thought you might actually make it.” A pause. A beat of silence, stretching taut. “But here we are.” Lee sighed dramatically, pressing just a little more weight into his hold. “Same story, different setting.”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched against the dirt. His mind moved faster than his body, calculating every shift in weight, every possible angle to escape. Lee was underestimating him. Not enough to be careless—not yet—but enough to assume this was over.

Jungkook tested the pressure against his neck, shifting just slightly. Lee noticed. The boot pressed down. Hard.

“Don’t,” Lee warned, voice dropping into a growl.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, forcing his body to still, to wait, to let Lee think he’d won. His lips twitched. A fraction of a smile. Lee’s grip on the gun tightened, the movement subtle—a hunter sensing the shift in the air, the moment before a predator strikes.

He leaned down, close enough that Jungkook could feel the smirk in his voice. “Go on,” he whispered. His breath was warm. His tone was taunting. “Try something. I dare you.”

Jungkook’s body went still. Too still. The silence stretched unnatural and tight, buzzing with something unspoken, unreadable. Lee frowned slightly. Jungkook smiled.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

By the time Y/N and the Chrislams stumbled back into the settlement, the twin suns hung low and merciless, stretching shadows across the cracked earth like skeletal fingers reaching for something they could never quite grasp.

And then she saw him. Jungkook. Sprawled in the dirt. His wrists shackled, his body wrecked.

One lens of his goggles was shattered, exposing the swollen ruin of his right eye, a bruise blooming deep and dark beneath the glass. Blood caked his face, dried in jagged streaks along his jaw, pooling at the corner of his split lip. His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths—the kind that meant he was keeping himself from making a sound, from showing weakness.

The dirt beneath him was stained with sweat and blood, mixing into the dust like he was being absorbed into the planet itself. And standing over him, fists still trembling, was Lee.

His knuckles were raw, his breathing sharp, his entire body locked tight like a spring stretched too far, too long. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t even speaking. Just watching. Waiting. Y/N felt the violence in the air before she heard it.

Lee’s voice came low and razor-sharp. "I don’t play that." His fists clenched again, his jaw tightening like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. "I don’t play that, so just try again." His breath was heavy, sharp, every word weighted with rage barely kept in check. “C’mon, Jungkook. Tell me a better lie.”

Y/N moved without thinking. She grabbed Lee’s arm, yanking him back hard. "Ease up!" she snapped, her voice slicing through the oppressive silence. The moment her hand connected, she felt how hot he was—burning with anger, with exertion. His pulse hammered beneath his skin, barely contained.

Lee didn’t turn to her. Didn’t move. And then—Bindi screamed. It was raw, guttural, the kind of sound that didn’t just come from the throat—it came from the bones, from the marrow, from something breaking inside.

She lunged.

Her fist hit Jungkook’s jaw so hard his head snapped sideways, blood spattering from his already-battered lip. His body didn’t even flinch, like he had already been beaten past the point of feeling it. Y/N reacted instantly, throwing herself between them, shoving Bindi back with both hands.

“Bindi! Stop!” she shouted, struggling to hold her back.

Bindi fought against her grip, her whole body shaking, tears streaking clean paths through the dirt on her face.

"You bloody sick animal!" she screamed, her voice splintering. "What’dja do with my Daku?"

Jungkook didn’t answer. Didn’t even lift his head. His expression was eerily blank, his face tilted just enough that one shattered lens reflected the fading light like a dying star. Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She turned to Lee, eyes blazing. “Where’s Daku?” she demanded. “What the hell happened out here?”

Lee finally looked at her. His expression was unreadable—too tight, too locked down. His fists unclenched slowly, like it was taking all his effort not to hit something else. With a sharp nod, he gestured toward Jungkook.

“Ask him.”

Y/N dropped to a crouch beside Jungkook, her voice shifting—softer, but no less urgent.

“Jungkook,” she said, staring at the wreck of his face, at the mess of blood and sweat and silence. “What happened to Daku?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, slow and even, like he was holding on to the only thing he could still control. Then, finally—he lifted his head. His cracked lips parted. But all that came out was a rasping sound. Low. Broken. Like the faint whisper of someone who had screamed themselves hoarse.

His eyes flicked to the horizon. To the jagged spires looming in the distance. Then back to her. His lips moved again. A single word, barely audible.

"Gone."

The world tilted. Bindi let out a choked sob, her legs buckling as she sank to the dirt. Lee’s jaw locked, his knuckles going white as his fingers tightened on the stock of his rifle. Y/N’s stomach plummeted. The weight of Jungkook’s answer pressed down on all of them, thick as smoke, suffocating.

She swallowed hard. Forced the words out. "Gone where? What do you mean gone?"

But Jungkook didn’t answer. His head tipped forward, his chin resting against his chest, his entire body folding in on itself like the fight had finally bled out. Like there was nothing left. Like he had already decided—whatever happened next wasn’t up to him anymore.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Y/N and Lee stood at the edge of the grave, their shadows stretching long over the ruined earth. The silence between them was thick, suffocating, the kind that only came after something had gone horribly, irreversibly wrong.

The scene was a crime scene without a body, a massacre without a corpse. Blood streaked the dirt in wild, erratic patterns, like the desperate brushstrokes of a painter losing control. The grave itself was a wreck, its edges collapsed inward, as if the ground had been alive when it happened, twisting, convulsing, devouring.

Nearby, Daku’s sled lay overturned, its contents scattered across the dirt—a mess of supplies, tangled cables, a crushed water jug. A single boot, scuffed and worn, sat half-buried in the dust, the laces flapping lazily in the wind. But Daku was gone.

Not a body. Not a single trace of him. Just this. This wreckage of struggle and silence. At the bottom of the grave, the hole yawned open, its edges lined with something fibrous and strange, something that looked almost… organic. It pulsed faintly in the breeze, like the twitch of a dying thing.

Y/N swallowed hard. It didn’t look natural. Nothing about this looked natural.

Beside her, Lee crouched, his sharp eyes scanning the ground like he was reading a language only he understood. In his hands, the bone-shiv gleamed, its smooth, curved edge catching the last slivers of dying sunlight. He turned it slowly, letting the light skim its surface, watching how it reflected in sharp, fleeting flashes.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. “He used that?” she asked, her voice low but tight. She didn’t know what answer she wanted.

Lee didn’t look up. Just kept turning the shiv over, like it was some kind of sacred artifact. “Sir Shiv-a-Lot,” he muttered, dry and detached. “He likes to cut.”

The words settled like poison in her gut.

“So why isn’t it bloody?” she pressed, her voice sharper now, her eyes flicking between the blade and Lee’s unreadable face. “If Jungkook did this—if he killed Daku—then where’s the blood?”

Finally, Lee looked at her. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, but there was no humor in it—just something cold and bitter, something dark sitting behind his eyes.

“Maybe he licked it clean.”

The joke hit like a slap. Unwanted. Cruel. Y/N recoiled slightly, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge the thought. She turned away from the grave, her arms crossing tightly over her chest, her breath uneven. The wind picked up, whipping dust around them, as if the planet itself was shifting, restless.

“This doesn’t make sense,” she muttered, her voice nearly swallowed by the wind. “None of this does.”

Lee stood, brushing the dirt from his hands, slipping the shiv into his belt. He glanced down at the grave one last time, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark.

“It’s not supposed to make sense,” he said, his tone flat, emotionless. He turned to her, his silhouette washed out against the light. “It’s just supposed to scare the hell out of you.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The cabin felt too small. Too damn small. The walls creaked, thick with heat and the weight of unspoken things. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and the faint, metallic tang of rusted iron—or maybe that was just him.

Jungkook was slumped against the wall, his shackled hands resting lazily in his lap. His dark hair was damp with sweat, half-hiding the wreck of his face. One lens of his goggles was shattered, exposing a swollen eye already blooming in shades of deep purple and red. Blood stained the cut of his jaw, a slow, sluggish trickle from his split lip. He looked like hell.

But he looked at her. And that was what made Y/N hesitate for half a breath too long. She stormed in, boots hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the metal beneath them. She was pissed. But more than that—she wanted answers.

“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the thick, suffocating air.

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his stillness was a lie. The tension was there, coiled beneath the surface like a blade waiting to strike.

“I’m serious,” she pressed, stepping closer, her fists clenching. “You told them you heard something right before it happened. What was it?” Her jaw tightened. “Talk, or I’ll let Lee finish what he started.”

Something dark flickered across Jungkook’s face—a twitch of amusement, a shadow of something cruel. And then, in a voice roughened by exhaustion and something else, something deeper, he rasped,

“You mean the whispers?”

Y/N frowned. “What whispers?”

Jungkook’s busted lip curled into something feral. Dangerous. Amused.

“The ones that tell you where to cut,” he murmured. His voice was so casual it made her skin crawl. “Left of the spine. Fourth lumbar down. That’s the sweet spot.” He smiled, slow and lazy, like a man reciting a bedtime story. “Gusher. Every time.”

Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t look away. Didn’t let him see that he’d rattled her. Because that’s what he wanted.

“Stop it,” she snapped. “Just stop.”

Jungkook didn’t. He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded like this was all one big joke. “Metallic taste, you know.” His voice was silk stretched thin over barbed wire. “Human blood. Coppery. But add a little peppermint schnapps…” He dragged his tongue over his split lip, smirking when her expression didn’t change. “Almost palatable.”

Y/N clenched her teeth. She could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the sweat and iron on his skin. He was playing with her. She wasn’t in the mood.

“Why don’t we skip the theatrics and try the truth?” she said coldly.

For a moment, Jungkook just watched her. His smirk softened—not gone, but different now. Something quieter. Something that almost looked like… regret.

“You’re all so scared of me,” he said softly. “Most days, I’d call that a compliment.” His voice was low, nearly lost to the hum of the ship. “But today…” His jaw ticked, his fingers flexing against the cuffs around his wrists. “Today, I’m not the monster you need to be worried about.”

Something in her chest pulled tight.

She took a step closer. “Take off the goggles.”

Jungkook went still. “No.”

Y/N didn’t wait for permission. She reached out and yanked them from his face, snapping the broken strap with a sharp crack. The goggles hit the floor.

Jungkook flinched, like she’d stripped away something vital. Then his eyes opened. Y/N froze.

His pupils were wide, swallowing the dim light. But it was the color that stopped her breath. A ring of shifting hues, flickering between deep emerald and burning amethyst, like oil-slicked glass catching fire. It was mesmerizing. Unnatural. Beautiful.

Her voice came out lower than she expected. “You did this to yourself?”

Jungkook let out a bitter laugh. “Slam doctor.” He tilted his head. “That’s what we called him.”

Y/N nodded. “I’ve heard about it. Never seen it.”

“Lucky you.”

His lips curled, but the smirk didn’t reach those strange, hypnotic eyes. “You’re locked in max-slam. Barely any light. Your eyes feel like they’re burning out of your skull.” He flicked a glance toward the slats of light bleeding through the metal walls. “Some back-alley butcher says, ‘Hey, I can fix that.’” His voice dropped, mocking. “And then you end up here. Three suns frying you alive. Makes you wish for the dark.”

Y/N folded her arms. “You think this is funny?”

Jungkook’s smirk sharpened. “You gotta laugh, sweetheart. Otherwise, you cry. And crying makes you thirsty.” He tapped his temple with one shackled finger. “Pro tip for desert living.”

Y/N let out a slow breath. “You killed before. You don’t deny that. But this one? Daku? You expect me to believe you didn’t?”

Jungkook went still. For a fraction of a second, something cracked in his expression. Then, it was gone—buried beneath that infuriating smirk.

“No, ma’am,” he said smoothly. “Not this time.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Then where is he?”

Jungkook leaned forward, just enough for the heat between them to become noticeable. The chains at his wrists rattled softly, but his focus was all on her. “Look deeper,” he murmured.

The way he said it—low, deliberate, dripping with something she didn’t like—sent a cold, involuntary shiver down her spine.

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

Jungkook didn’t answer immediately. He tilted his head, studying her like he was measuring how much she could take before she broke. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper—a voice that sent her stomach twisting with something she didn’t want to name—he said, “Wrong questions.”

She swallowed hard. “What are you talking about?”

Jungkook sat back, his expression unreadable. Deadly.

“Daku ain’t the only one who’s not where he’s supposed to be,” he said softly. “Or haven’t you noticed?”

A chill slid down her spine. His words settled in her chest like a loaded gun.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “What are you saying?”

Jungkook tilted his head, his bruised lips curling slightly. “You’ll see.” His voice was calm, certain, almost amused. And then—softer, darker, almost like a promise: “And when you do? You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Chapter 3: Last Exodus

The group moved across the barren landscape, their figures cutting stark silhouettes against the twin suns. Heat shimmered off the cracked earth, warping the horizon into something dreamlike, something deceptive.

Y/N led the way, her stride relentless, her jaw tight. She wasn’t in the mood for theories. She wanted proof. Hard, undeniable proof.

Lee followed, a few paces behind, his shotgun slung over his shoulder in that lazy way of his. But his glances—sharp, quick, too frequent— betrayed his nerves.

“I know what happened,” Lee said, his voice dripping with cynicism. “He snapped. Went off on Daku. Buried him somewhere else. Now he’s sitting back, watching us run in circles like idiots.”

“Let’s just be sure,” Y/N cut in, her tone sharp as a blade.

Lee scoffed. “I am sure.” He picked up his pace until he was walking beside her. “Murders aside, Jungkook’s got one skill—being a world-class bastard. He lives for this. Keeping you scared. Keeping you guessing. And you’re playing right into—”

Y/N stopped so abruptly, Lee nearly walked into her.

“We’re gonna find the body,” she snapped, turning to face him, her eyes burning with resolve. “Christ, you’re a cop. Why am I the one telling you this?” She exhaled sharply. “We have to go down and look.”

Lee’s smirk faltered. For the first time, she saw something almost like concern in his face.

“Hey,” he said, dropping his voice. He reached for her arm, gripping it just enough to make her stop. “Being ballsy with your life now doesn’t change what came before. It’s just stupid.”

Y/N met his eyes, her gaze unwavering. “Thanks for the tip, Lee,” she said coolly, shaking off his grip. “Now get out of my way.”

He let her go.

The grave gaped open, its jagged edges crumbling slightly as she approached. A damp, metallic tang seeped from the darkness below, curling in the back of her throat.

Y/N knelt, fastening the chain to her web belt, testing the tension. Above her, the others formed a loose circle, their faces pinched with concern.

She looked up one last time.

The sunlight behind them cast them in silhouette, but the brightness felt wrong. Oppressive. A silent warning.

Y/N exhaled sharply and lowered herself into the pit.

The grave swallowed her whole.

The air inside was thick, moist, pressing against her skin like a second layer of flesh. The heat above was suffocating, but this? This was worse.

Darkness closed in, broken only by the faint light filtering from above. Y/N adjusted her grip on the chain, her breath steady but shallow. Her boots scuffed against the tunnel floor, loose dirt shifting beneath her.

Her fingers brushed the walls.

She yanked her hand back.

The lining of the tunnel wasn’t just earth. It was fibrous, damp— something between plant matter and flesh.

Her stomach turned, but she pressed forward.

Jungkook was probably sitting back in the ship, laughing his ass off, knowing he’d manipulated her into crawling into this.

The thought lasted right up until she entered a chamber.

The space yawned open, a vaulted cavern stretching high above her. Light seeped through fissures in the rock, not illuminating, but distorting. The shadows moved.

Something shifted along the walls.

Y/N went still.

She knelt, sweeping her hand through the dirt. Something cold met her fingertips.

Daku’s handlight.

It was half-buried, scratched and smeared. She flicked the switch. Nothing. Broken. Like everything else.

She tossed it aside, adjusting her headlamp. The beam cut through the gloom, revealing more of the chamber’s unnatural structure.

Then, she saw them.

Bones.

Old, yellowed, cracked and splintered. They littered the chamber floor, scattered like discarded leftovers. Some were hollowed out. Others bore deep grooves—teeth marks.

Y/N’s stomach lurched.

The walls of the cavern twisted upward, forming a jagged funnel stretching toward the surface. The spires.

She whispered, almost in awe: “They’re hollow.”

The realization barely settled before she heard it.

Click-click.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Click-click-click.

Her headlamp swung toward the sound, the beam trembling slightly. Something moved.

Just beyond the light.

A shadow unfurled, slow and deliberate.

Cold, primal fear rushed through her veins. She started backing up—slow, measured steps.

Her hand brushed against something solid.

A boot.

Relief surged—until she looked. Daku’s boot. And part of him was still inside it.

Her mind snapped into perfect clarity.

Jungkook’s voice, amused, mocking—"Metallic taste, you know. Copper. Bit of peppermint schnapps.”

The air was thick with it. The smell. The taste. Her stomach flipped.

Clickity-clickity-clickity.

The sound multiplied. From everywhere. A cacophony of tiny knives tapping against stone. The shadows burst into motion. The walls moved. The entire chamber pulsed.

The chain jerked.

Y/N wasn’t alone.

She turned to run.

The sound multiplied, filling the chamber like a cacophony of tiny knives tapping against stone.

Click-click. Click-click-click.

Fast. Too fast. Shadows burst into motion, circling the perimeter with quick, predatory movements. The air thickened, a buzzing hum vibrating through the cavern like the thrumming of unseen wings.

Y/N’s breath came in short, ragged bursts. She had seconds. Maybe less.

She spun, her headlamp swinging wildly, but the shadows only taunted her, slithering just beyond the reach of her light.

Then, the ground moved beneath her. No—it wasn’t the ground. The bones. They were shifting. Something was underneath them. Something big. The first claw burst from the pile of remains like a blade through soft flesh.

Y/N didn’t scream. Not yet. Not until she saw the eyes.

A dozen pairs, glowing like smoldering embers, blinking in unison from the darkness.

Then she screamed.

"PULL ME UP!"

Her voice ripped through the cavern, raw and desperate, bouncing off the walls in an echo that seemed to stretch too long.

The chain jerked above her, but it wasn’t moving fast enough.

They were coming.

Click-click-click.

Shadows poured from the walls. Tiny, winged things, their translucent bodies sleek and armored, their razor-thin mandibles snapping open and shut. And they were fast.

Y/N kicked back, scrambling to reach the chain as one of the creatures dove for her.

Too late.

A flash of pale wings. A piercing pain exploded in her arm, right above her elbow. Its jaws sank in. Y/N screamed again, more anger than fear this time, and ripped the thing away. It took flesh with it. Hot, wet blood slid down her arm.

She barely registered the pain before another one latched onto her calf.

No. No. No.

She reached for her knife, but the chain yanked upward, nearly dislocating her shoulder. They were pulling her up. She slashed wildly, her blade connecting with something soft, and the creature on her leg let go. She didn’t look down. She couldn’t.

She was almost there—

Something hissed below her. A deep, guttural sound, too big to belong to the flying things.

Oh, God.

The eyes in the dark blinked again. And then they moved.

Y/N felt it in her bones before she saw it—the heaving shift of something massive, something crawling toward her, something not supposed to exist.

The air turned putrid, thick with the smell of rot and metal. The thing in the dark exhaled, and the cavern walls trembled. It was rising. Coming for her.

"FASTER!"

Her scream hit the surface before she did.

She burst from the grave, thrown onto the dirt like a fish yanked from black water. The hands that caught her weren’t gentle. Namjoon and Lee hauled her back, her body skidding across the packed earth, her lungs fighting for air.

Her ears were ringing. She was shaking. But she was out.

She grabbed Namjoon’s collar, pulling him close, her voice a broken rasp:

"Seal it. Now."

Lee didn’t argue. He threw the tarp over the grave, slammed the largest crates on top, his hands moving like he already knew what was coming.

Y/N’s breath hitched as she twisted, her headlamp still on. For a split second, she saw it. A flash of something huge, slick, white. Jaws full of too many teeth. Pale wings.

And then the cavern swallowed itself whole. The sound vanished. The ground stilled. Silence. Just the wind, blowing soft, unbothered, as if the world beneath them hadn’t just tried to devour her whole.

Y/N lay sprawled in the dirt, her chest heaving, lungs raw from screaming, her body still vibrating from the adrenaline dump. Every nerve felt fried, every muscle quivering as if trying to shake loose from her bones. Her heart pounded against her ribs, hard enough that she half-expected it to break through. The taste of copper and sweat coated her tongue, and when she swallowed, it burned like she’d just drunk fire.

Above her, the sky stretched in an endless, indifferent expanse, the twin suns beginning their slow descent. The heat still pressed down on her, but she barely noticed it. Not after that.

Not after what she had seen.

Namjoon was the first to move. He dropped to his knees beside her, his breath ragged but steady, his hands hovering over her shoulders as if unsure whether to touch her or just make sure she was still breathing. His dark eyes, usually so measured, so careful, were wide with a fear he hadn’t quite shaken.

"You're okay," he said, though his voice wavered slightly. It wasn’t reassuring—it was a hopeful guess.

Y/N blinked up at him, her vision unfocused, her brain still clawing its way back to reality. The world was spinning slightly, a delayed aftershock of fear and exhaustion.

"Am I?" she rasped. Her voice barely made it past her cracked lips.

Namjoon didn’t answer.

The weight of what had just happened hung thick in the air, suffocating them both.

A few feet away, Lee crouched, his shotgun resting across his lap. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found. His knuckles were white around the stock of his weapon, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant fear.

"What the hell was that?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. His gaze flickered toward the grave, still gaping, its jagged edges casting fractured shadows in the fading light.

Y/N shuddered.

It wasn’t just a grave anymore. It was a door. To what, she didn’t know. But something had been waiting behind it. Something that had taken Daku.

"It wasn’t Jungkook," she said suddenly, her voice shaking but firm. She forced herself upright, her body protesting the movement. Every inch of her screamed hurt, but she pushed through it.

Lee’s eyes snapped to her, sharp and skeptical.

"Oh yeah?" he drawled. "Then what was it?"

The words felt poisonous in her throat, but she had to say them.

"I don’t know."

Bindi stepped forward, her face pale, her arms trembling at her sides. The way her hands clenched and unclenched told Y/N she was barely holding it together.

"Then where is he?" Bindi demanded, her voice cracking. "Where’s Daku?"

Y/N swallowed hard. She didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to admit what she’d seen—or rather, what she hadn’t.

The clicking sounds. The inhuman movements. The way the shadows had crawled across the walls like they were alive. She could still feel it, still hear the whispering hush of brittle wings against the cavern walls.

Her throat tightened. Her hands felt empty without her knife.

"I don’t know," she whispered, hating the way her voice broke. "It’s not... It’s not human. It’s something else."

Bindi's hands flew to her mouth, a muffled sob escaping. Namjoon stepped in beside her, murmuring something too soft to hear, but it didn’t seem to help. Bindi shook her head, tears carving streaks through the grime on her face.

"Something else," Lee echoed. Disbelieving. Not quite mocking, but close. He stood, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder in one smooth motion. "Great. That’s helpful."

Y/N’s fear flashed into anger.

"It got Daku," she snapped, her voice hoarse, raw. "It almost got me. So unless you want to end up in pieces like he did, maybe don’t go poking at it."

Lee's eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. For once, he had nothing to say.

Namjoon broke the silence, his voice calm but firm, "We need to get out of here. Back to the ship. Now."

Bindi looked like she wanted to argue, her grief twisting into defiance, but she caught something in Namjoon’s expression.

He wasn’t suggesting—he was commanding.

She nodded, reluctantly, wiping her tears away with shaking hands. Y/N cast one last glance at the grave, its dark, gaping mouth now a silent reminder of the nightmare beneath.

Then—

A sound. Faint. Almost like a whisper through the earth.

Click-click-click.

Y/N’s stomach lurched.

She took a step back, but the sound was already gone. Had it even been there? Or had she imagined it?

The others were already moving. She followed.

The suns had dipped lower, the sky bleeding into shades of red and deep gold. The air cooled, but Y/N could still feel the heat clinging to her skin, mixing with the sweat drying against her back. Every step felt wrong. Like something was watching.

No one spoke. Not Bindi. Not Lee. Even Namjoon, the one who always had a plan, a course of action, was silent. Y/N clenched her fists, the dirt beneath her nails grounding her.

She focused on that. The pressure of her own fingers digging into her palms. The rhythm of her boots hitting the dirt. The distant hum of the wind shifting across the landscape.

It wasn’t enough.

The questions swirled, relentless, circling her like scavengers. What had she seen? What had she barely escaped? And, most terrifying of all—

Was it done with them yet?

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The settlement roiled with motion, a frantic, desperate energy thrumming through the air. Voices clashed, rising sharp and panicked over the clatter of salvaged supplies. Hands seized anything and everything—scraps that once held no value now deemed indispensable. Oxygen canisters. Bottles of liquor. An umbrella missing half its ribs. A battered copy of the Koran, its pages thin and worn from time and touch, was bundled up with the same reverence as a lifeline.

Leo hesitated, breath caught in his throat as his gaze drifted to the hills. There was something about the way the light slanted against them. Something wrong. The jagged spires stretched high, their peaks curling like skeletal fingers grasping at the last embers of the sun. Shadows twisted at their base, too deep, too consuming, like the land itself was caving inward. His skin prickled. He couldn’t shake the sensation that those hills were watching him back.

“Keep moving, kid!”

Bindi’s voice cut through the air, snapping him out of it. She was already straining under the weight of a supply crate, sweat streaking through the dust caked on her face.

Leo gave a quick nod, swallowing the unease as he bent to grab another bundle. The ship was nearly stripped bare.

Y/N and Namjoon wrestled with a heavy power cell, their bodies straining as they fought against rusted bolts and time itself. The thing gave way with a violent lurch, sending them both stumbling as it crashed onto the deck with a deafening clang. The sound echoed, hollow and final, through the gutted remains of the ship.

Namjoon straightened first, rolling his shoulders, dragging the back of his hand across his forehead. Sweat and grease smeared over his temple, but his eyes were already locked on the single cell they’d managed to pull free.

“That’s it?” His voice was edged with doubt.

“For now.” Y/N exhaled sharply, though exhaustion seeped into her words.

They needed at least two. Three, if they wanted any chance beyond sheer dumb luck. But time was a currency they no longer had. She pressed her hands into the small of her back, stretching against the deep-set ache in her spine. Her gaze flickered past Namjoon, past the ship, toward the horizon.

The feeling was there again. A slow, crawling awareness, like something was pressing against the edges of her mind, watching, waiting.

“We don’t have time to get picky.” Her voice was quieter now, more to herself than to him. “We survive on this.”

Namjoon studied her for a beat, something unreadable flickering across his face before he nodded. That was the thing about them—words weren’t always necessary. The understanding was silent, steady. They’d figure it out. They always did.

Together, they hefted the power cell onto a sled, their movements mechanical, efficient, but tense.

The spires loomed in the distance. Silent. Motionless. But not empty.

Their long shadows crawled over the barren land, their peaks carved black against the burnt-orange sky. A presence hummed in the air, thick and suffocating, like the land itself was bracing. Y/N felt it settle deep in her gut, a sick, gnawing certainty—

They weren’t the only ones preparing.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The chains rattled, a dull metallic whisper swallowed by the dry wind. Jungkook sat still, slumped just enough to feign exhaustion, his wrists resting limply in his lap. The angry red welts beneath the iron stood out against his sweat-slicked skin, but his posture was loose, deceptively relaxed. His hair, damp and tangled, hung in front of his face, masking his expression. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t even tired.

He was waiting.

The sun baked the cracked dirt beneath him, heat rising in shimmering waves, but he remained unmoved, the picture of effortless patience. He had all the time in the world.

A shadow loomed. He didn’t bother looking up.

"Found something worse than me, huh?” His voice, rough from disuse, carried a dry amusement, the kind that slithered under the skin, just sharp enough to make you second-guess whether he was joking or simply waiting for the moment to rip you apart.

Lee stepped closer, shotgun cradled against his chest, grip deceptively casual. But Jungkook saw the tension, the twitch in his fingers against the stock, the weight of unspoken violence hovering between them.

“We’re moving,” Lee said, as if that explained anything. "And I’m just wondering if I shouldn’t lighten the load right now.”

Jungkook finally tilted his head up, dark eyes gleaming behind the fractured glass of his goggles. His lips curled, slow and measured, into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

The air thickened, the kind of silence that pressed against the ribs, waiting for the inevitable snap.

The shotgun rose.

The hammer cocked.

From the corner of his vision, Y/N tensed, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t interfere. Not yet.

Jungkook’s smirk widened, sharp as a blade. “Woof, woof.”

The blast split the air.

Iron exploded, smoking fragments clattering across the dirt. The chains shattered.

Jungkook’s arms fell forward, unbound at last. He flexed his fingers, watching with quiet satisfaction as blood rushed back into them, warming flesh that had been starved of movement for far too long.

Lee leaned in, voice just above a whisper, breath hot against Jungkook’s ear. “Want you to remember this moment,” he murmured. “The way it could’ve gone—and didn’t.”

Jungkook turned his head, slow, deliberate, his grin curling at the edges. He liked this game.

“Say that again,” he murmured, soft, almost coaxing, but his gaze was a different story. There was nothing gentle in the way he looked at Lee. Nothing human.

Lee didn’t flinch. “Help us get off this rock,” he said, tightening his grip on the shotgun. “No chains. No shivs. You work with us, and we all get out of here alive.”

Jungkook arched a brow, considering. “And what’s in it for me?”

Lee’s jaw ticked. “Truth is, I want to be free of you as much as you want to be free of me. But right now?” He glanced at the wasteland stretching beyond them. “Neither of us has that option.”

Jungkook inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders now that he was unburdened. He weighed the odds, measured the numbers, calculated the likelihood of survival.

And then, just for a second, his eyes flickered to Y/N.

Not trust. Not exactly. But something close enough to make him hesitate.

The grin widened, razor-sharp. “You’d cut me loose, Boss?” he drawled, feigning mock disbelief.

Lee shrugged, extending a hand—not an offer, not a truce. Just an inevitability. “Only if we both get out of this alive.”

Jungkook stared at it. Nobody breathed.

Then, with the kind of speed that defied logic, he moved.

In one fluid motion, he ripped the shotgun from Lee’s grip, flipping it in his hands with a practiced ease that made it clear he could have done it blindfolded. The barrel swung up, aimed squarely at Lee’s chest.

Click.

The safety flicked off.

Jungkook’s smirk never wavered. “Want you to remember this moment,” he said, throwing Lee’s words back at him, reshaping them into something entirely his own.

He pumped the shotgun.

Ejected the spent shell.

Then—deliberately, almost lazily—he spat a handful of blue shells onto the ground at Lee’s feet.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the shotgun aside. It hit the dirt, useless, forgotten.

And then, without a word, he turned and walked away. Loose. Confident. Untouchable.

Like he’d never been shackled. Like he’d never been caught.

Y/N exhaled, pulse hammering in her throat.

She had been waiting for Jungkook to be released.

But watching him now, watching the way he moved—like nothing had changed, like he was just slipping back into the skin that had always been his—she realized something that made her stomach twist.

She trusted Jungkook more than she trusted Lee.

And that terrified her most of all.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The horizon was a violent masterpiece, an ever-shifting war of light painted by three merciless suns. The blue sun dipped lower, casting its eerie glow across the scorched desert, while the yellow and red giants stretched their fingers of fire over the barren wasteland. The sky bled color, deep purples and burnt golds tangled together in something both breathtaking and apocalyptic.

Against this surreal backdrop, the survivors pressed forward—a ragged procession of exhaustion and desperation, their hope worn thin, stretched past the point of breaking.

Y/N and Namjoon moved as one, their shoulders braced beneath the crushing weight of the power cell, their steps synchronized out of necessity rather than intent. Each footfall was a reminder of the stakes. There was no second plan. No backup. This was it. If they failed, the desert would take them, piece by piece.

But even their burden paled in comparison to the one Jungkook carried.

He was no longer the feral thing that had hunted them in the dark. No longer the prisoner bound in chains. Now, he was something in between, something undefined, something dangerous in its own right. A beast of burden, pulling a makeshift sled behind him, piled high with scavenged supplies, jury-rigged tech, and the last scraps of survival they had left. His chains were gone, but freedom—true freedom—was an illusion. The weight on his shoulders hadn’t lessened. It had simply changed shape.

Trailing alongside Lee, Peter tilted the neck of a half-empty wine bottle toward Jungkook, his expression laced with disbelief and something dangerously close to amusement.

“So, just like that?” he drawled. “You wave your little wand, and he’s one of us now?”

Lee snorted, shotgun slung casually over one shoulder, but the way his fingers flexed on the stock said he wasn’t relaxed. Not really.

“Didn’t say that,” Lee muttered. “But this way, I don’t have to worry about waking up with him standing over me with something sharp.”

Namjoon turned his head just enough to glance back, his voice measured, diplomatic. “Perhaps we owe Mr. Jungkook some amends.”

Bindi let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Right. Because now’s the perfect time for an apology tour. Let’s all line up and beg for forgiveness. That’ll fix everything.”

“At the very least,” Namjoon insisted, “he should have oxygen.”

Lee waved a dismissive hand. “He’s happy just being vertical. Leave him be.”

Behind them, Leo shifted hesitantly before speaking, his voice tentative. “So… can I talk to him now?”

“No,” Lee and Bindi snapped in unison.

Leo deflated immediately, shrinking back in silence, eyes dropping to the ground.

Peter, unfazed by the tension, let the wine bottle slip from his fingers, watching as it tumbled toward the dirt.

Jungkook caught it mid-stride, smooth as a pickpocket, never breaking pace.

Peter didn’t notice until it was too late. “Hey—”

Jungkook twisted the cap off in one effortless flick and took a slow, deliberate sip, his head tilting back just enough to make a point. He handed the bottle back without a glance, without a word, without even acknowledging Peter’s indignation.

Peter gaped, then swore under his breath. “If I owned Hell and this planet, I’d rent this out and live in Hell.”

The ground beneath them shifted, narrowing into a canyon, jagged spires of rock rising around them. The golden light caught the edges, casting long, uneven shadows like serrated teeth lining the pathway.

The silence thickened.

Y/N felt it first.

A ripple in the air. The electric prickle of something shifting just out of reach.

Clickity-click.

The sound was faint, barely there.

“What is it?” Namjoon asked, his voice low.

Y/N’s eyes swept the canyon walls, her breath shallow as she strained to hear it again.

Silence.

Clickity-click-click.

Closer this time.

Her stomach dropped. Her hand shot to her knife, fingers curling around the hilt.

The sound came again, to her right.

Click-click-clickity.

It was coming from—

She exhaled sharply, shoulders loosening as she rolled her eyes, tension bleeding from her body.

“It’s his beads,” she muttered, flicking her chin toward Yeonjun’s belt.

The prayer beads clacked softly as he walked, oblivious to the panic they’d caused.

Namjoon let out a slow breath, shaking his head. Lee smirked, tossing her a knowing look. “Jumpin’ at shadows already, princess?”

Y/N ignored him.

She wasn’t jumping at shadows.

She was jumping at what lived in them.

The suns bled into the horizon, dragging streaks of orange and violet through the sky as the settlement came into view. The ruins sprawled before them—rusted shipping containers, skeletal structures collapsed under years of neglect, the remnants of a place that had long since lost the battle against the elements.

Peter wrinkled his nose, eyes sweeping over the decay with unimpressed detachment. “Usually, I can appreciate antiques,” he mused. “But this is hardly a collector’s dream.”

Y/N ignored him. Her gaze locked onto the skiff. Their way out.

The wreck sat hunched on its battered landing struts, its fabric wings in tatters, its hull pitted with corrosion. It looked more corpse than vehicle, and yet, it was their last chance. She and Namjoon muscled the power cell toward it, their grunts of exertion the only sound in the hush of the dying settlement.

Lee circled the skiff, his scowl deepening. “Ratty-ass thing.” He gave one of its struts a sharp kick, as if that would somehow restore it to working order.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” Y/N ground out, angling the cell into place. “So long as the electrical adapts.”

Bindi crossed her arms, skeptical. “Not a star-jumper. Won’t get us far.”

Jungkook had been silent until now, leaning against a rusted container, arms folded, watching. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm.

“Doesn’t need to be.”

The group turned to him.

His expression didn’t shift, but there was something in his gaze—calculated, knowing. Like he’d already mapped their escape before they even set foot in this place.

“We use this to get back up to the Sol-Track Shipping Lanes,” he said. “Stick out a thumb.” Then, after a beat, he glanced at Y/N, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Right?”

She hesitated. His reasoning was sound. That didn’t mean she trusted him.

Her gaze flicked to Lee.

A convict. A cop.

And somehow, she trusted one more than the other.

“Little help here?” she snapped, shattering the moment.

Together, they shoved the power cell into the skiff’s empty housing, the metal groaning under the weight. Jungkook moved to follow, but Lee stepped into his path.

“Check those containers,” Lee said, his voice clipped, his stance rigid. “See what we can patch the wings with.”

For a fraction of a second, something dark passed through Jungkook’s gaze. A flash of something that coiled beneath his skin like a wire pulled too tight.

But he didn’t argue.

Without a word, he turned and stalked toward the scattered remnants of the settlement.

The suns continued their descent, stretching long, jagged shadows across the ground.

And somewhere, deep in the canyon beyond, something clicked.

The settlement stirred, the quiet murmur of movement threading through the thickening twilight. The survivors worked with purpose, though the weight of the unknown pressed against them like an iron yoke.

At the edge of the ruins, the Chrislams moved in solemn reverence, their hands steady, precise, as they repaired the moisture-recovery unit. Every twist of a wrench, every careful turn of a valve, was an offering. Their voices wove through the air in a soft, murmured hymn, a thread of devotion stitched into the fabric of the evening.

For them, this was not just survival.

It was proof.

That they had not been abandoned.

That this planet had not swallowed them whole.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The power cell clicked into place with a sharp, mechanical snap. A low hum pulsed through the battered skiff, its ancient circuits shuddering back to life. The cockpit’s displays stuttered, blinking sluggishly as though dragging themselves out of a years-long coma. One by one, the dashboard lights steadied into a dim, uneven glow—proof that the thing wasn’t entirely dead yet.

Y/N wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing sweat and grime into a single, indistinguishable streak. “Okay,” she muttered, leaning back to inspect her work. “That should buy us enough juice for a systems check. But we’ll need more cells if we actually want to get this thing off the ground.”

Lee stood in the skiff’s doorway, shotgun slung over his back, his stance casual but his eyes never still, constantly scanning the dark corners of the settlement. He snorted. “How many more?”

Y/N ran the numbers, a rapid-fire equation of weight, energy output, and sheer impossible odds. “Fifteen six-gig cells here, ninety gigs total. The other ship uses twenty-gig cells, so…” She exhaled sharply, tapping her fingers against the hull, calculating. “Five. We need five more.”

Lee let out a slow, unimpressed whistle. “Twenty-five kilos each, huh?” His voice was dry, laced with something dangerously close to amusement. “Great. Let me guess—you want me to haul ‘em myself?”

Bindi scoffed, wiping her hands on her torn pants. She jerked her chin toward the rusting skeleton of a sand-cat vehicle half-buried at the edge of the settlement. The sun had bleached its frame white, but the treads and chassis still looked intact.

“Old sand-cat out there might still have some life in her,” she said. “I’ll see if I can get it up and chuggin’.”

Lee gave a curt nod. “Do it. And if you need an extra hand, tap our problem child.”

Y/N barely looked up from the power cell’s console. “Where’s Jungkook?”

Lee shrugged. “No clue. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Jungkook moved through the dead town like a shadow, his stride unhurried, his presence an unwelcome interruption in the unnatural silence.

The settlement was a graveyard. A place abandoned in a hurry.

Overturned chairs, scattered belongings, rusted-out tools lying in the dirt where hands had once gripped them with purpose. Dead gardens, their vines clawing through cracked pavement, creeping back over what had been taken from them.

The silence wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Full of whispers. Of memories. Of lives that had been lived and then erased, leaving nothing but footprints fading beneath the shifting dust.

Behind him, Leo and Soobin trailed at a careful distance, their movements hesitant, their curiosity gnawing at them like hungry animals. They whispered—low, uncertain—but Jungkook didn’t acknowledge them. If he heard, he gave no sign.

At the far edge of the settlement, the Chrislams gathered around the moisture-recovery unit, their faces tight with something between anticipation and disbelief.

A single bead of water formed at the base of the pipette, clinging for a moment before finally dropping into the waiting cup below.

Tongues fought for it.

Another drop. Then another.

A slow, uneven trickle began, and a breathless murmur rippled through the gathered crowd.

Not a celebration.

A prayer answered.

A few meters away, Peter was humming. Some jaunty, ridiculous tune that felt wholly out of place in the crumbling remains of the world. His fingers moved carefully, unwrapping crystal goblets—absurd in the face of their circumstances, but somehow perfectly in character. He had claimed a long, dust-covered refectory table, brushing off the grime and rearranging mining scraps into makeshift centerpieces.

He even found a faded Christmas garland tangled in an old storage container, shook off the dust, and strung it across the table with an unnecessary flourish.

“If we’re dying out here,” Peter mused, adjusting a vase filled with broken drill bits, “we might as well die with a bit of class.”

The bridge was unnervingly silent, the kind of quiet that felt like an inhale before a scream. Outside, chaos churned—voices rising, metal groaning, the slow unraveling of control—but in here, nothing moved. Nothing but her.

Y/N worked quickly, hands steady even as her mind spun. The main console’s housing face came loose with a soft, mechanical click, revealing the smooth crystal core of Captain Marshall’s log. It was nestled there like a relic, untouched, waiting.

She plucked it from its slot, the surface cool against her palm.

Then she turned it over, and her stomach twisted.

The blood was dried, flaked brown, but unmistakable. A smear of it streaked across her fingers, sinking into the lines of her skin like it belonged there.

Her breath hitched. “Fuck.”

The log disappeared into her back pocket, shoved deep, as if that could undo what she had seen. Her hand trembled. She scrubbed it against her thigh, hard enough to sting, but the stain remained. The more she rubbed, the more it felt like the blood was seeping inward, like it wasn’t just on her skin but under it.

A memory hit.

Red pooling across the dirt, too bright under the glare of the suns. The metallic tang of it thick in the air. The hole she had crawled into. The boot she had found there. Daku’s boot. He had been tall. Serious. Steadfast. Now, he was nothing.

Just a smudge on her hand.

She didn’t hear Jungkook until he was right beside her. By then, it was too late to steel herself. He crouched in front of her, his shadow stretching long under the merciless light of the three suns. His movements were easy, unhurried, as if this brutal, dying world bent to his will.

“It won’t come off that easily.” His voice was quiet, edged with something unreadable—not a warning, not a threat, but something closer. Something dangerous in its softness.

Y/N’s head snapped up, her breath shallow. Their eyes met. For a second—just a second—she faltered.

Jungkook was always a storm, something violent waiting to happen. But in this moment, in the stifling heat and unnatural stillness, there was no trace of chaos in him. Just watchfulness. Just something steady, patient. Not just looking. Seeing. His hand reached for hers before she could react, fingers warm and sure as he turned her palm upward.

“Let go of my hand,” she snapped, yanking against his grip.

He didn’t.

His thumb traced over the dried blood, slow and deliberate, his brow furrowing slightly. His breath was even, unbothered, like he had all the time in the world to unravel her. Then, he blew across her palm, a whisper of air stirring the dust. Her fingers twitched before she could stop them. He noticed. Something flickered across his face—amusement, curiosity. Or maybe something else.

“It’s not yours.” His gaze lifted, sharp as a blade.

The words landed like a brand, sinking deep beneath her skin. Before she could jerk away, he licked his thumb and pressed it against the stain. Heat. A sudden, shocking warmth against her palm, slow and deliberate. Her pulse stuttered.

“Damn it, Jungkook,” she hissed. “Stop—”

His grin curled, wicked and unrepentant. “Relax.” His thumb moved in steady, patient strokes. “I’ll get it off.”

She wanted to shove him away. Wanted to snap, to curse, to remind him that he was insufferable, impossible, unbearable— but her body refused to listen. Because his touch wasn’t cruel. It was precise.

His thumb traced the lines of her palm, lingering over the tiny creases, his fingers moving with a familiarity that made her stomach twist. Around them, the camp hummed on—Namjoon’s low voice, Bindi’s grief-tinged frustration, the Chrislams murmuring over the water unit. But all of it felt distant. Because there was only this. Only him.

Jungkook’s smirk faded as his thumb stilled. His head tilted, his gaze sweeping over her face, searching. She looked different in this light—lips parted slightly, stray strands of hair curling against her temple, the sun catching gold in her lashes. And for the first time in a long time, he felt off-balance. Not in a fight. Not in a hunt. But here—with her. Unarmed. Vulnerable. And it made no damn sense.

“There.” His voice had gone quieter. “No more blood.”

The spell shattered. Y/N yanked her hand back like his touch had burned her. The loss of contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and immediate. Her fingers curled into a fist. Her pulse was too fast. Too loud.

“Fuck,” she muttered, voice tight, body tense with something she couldn’t name.

Jungkook rocked back on his heels, his smirk sliding back into place—but it was different now. A little too forced. A little too knowing.

“Bit public for my tastes,” he said smoothly. “But if you’re game—”

She shoved him. Hard.

He swayed, balance shifting for half a breath before he caught himself. For the briefest moment, she saw real surprise flicker in his expression—before he laughed. A rich, unbothered sound. Like he wasn’t fazed in the slightest. But something in his eyes had changed. Something raw. And neither of them knew what to do with it.

Y/N took a step back, still glaring, still trying to breathe normally.

Jungkook didn’t move. He just stood there, loose and unreadable, but his gaze wasn’t. And then he smirked. Not the usual lazy, cocky kind he wore like armor, but something slower, something that settled deep, like he had just seen something she hadn’t meant to show. Like he knew.

Y/N’s pulse slammed against her ribs. She clenched her jaw, willed herself to speak, to move, to do anything except stand there and let him see her like this. Jungkook stayed exactly where he was, hands easy at his sides, head tilted just enough to catch the light, casting sharp shadows along his jaw. The goggles hid his eyes, but she could feel them on her, cataloging every breath, every tiny shift in her stance.

It was infuriating.

The ship groaned, its metal bones adjusting to the temperature drop outside. Night was closing in, and with it, things they weren’t ready for. She should have walked away. Should have focused on the job, ignored the heat still crawling up her spine, the phantom weight of his touch lingering against her skin.

Instead—

“You’re an asshole.” The words tumbled out, sharp but breathless.

Jungkook chuckled, slow and lazy, his tongue running over his bottom lip. “And yet, here we are.”

Her fingers twitched. A reckless part of her wanted to swing, wipe that smugness clean off his face. But another part—one she refused to acknowledge—was still caught in the moment before, in the press of his thumb against her palm, in the softness of his voice when he had murmured no more blood.

She exhaled hard through her nose, forcing herself to let it go. “We need to finish the systems check,” she muttered, stepping past him, her shoulder barely grazing his as she moved.

Jungkook didn’t stop her.

But he didn’t step away, either.

Instead, just as she reached the console, his voice followed, a quiet hum beneath the ship’s reviving power. “You didn’t flinch.”

Her fingers hesitated over the controls.

His tone was unreadable, but something about it sent a slow chill through her. “What?”

“When I touched you.”

She turned, her glare sharp. “I told you to let go.”

He nodded, considering, then tilted his head, voice maddeningly calm. “Yeah. But you didn’t flinch.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Because he was right.

She had pulled away after, once her mind had caught up, once the moment had settled in. But in that instant? When his fingers had curled around hers, when his thumb had pressed slow and certain against her skin—

She hadn’t flinched.

And that unsettled her more than anything.

Jungkook knew it, too. It was written all over his face.

She turned back to the console, jaw tight, forcing herself to focus. Behind her, she heard the quiet rasp of his boots against the metal as he finally moved, finally put space between them.

But the weight of his presence lingered.

And she hated that she felt it.

“JUNGKOOK?”

The shout cut through the air.

Lee.

Sharp. Hunting. Demanding.

Jungkook’s expression shifted instantly. His shoulders tensed, that easy confidence sharpening into something colder, something lethal. Without hesitation, he pressed a finger to his lips—a silent command—before slipping into the ship’s shadows. Effortless. Like he’d never been there at all.

Y/N hesitated, then nodded once. Oddly, it felt natural to trust him in this. Even though she had no reason to. Even though she wasn’t sure she ever should.

Lee rounded the corner, his bloodshot eyes narrowing the second they landed on her. He looked wired, his movements too quick, his fingers twitching like they wanted to be wrapped around a trigger.

“You seen Jungkook?”

Y/N tilted her head, brushing stray strands of hair from her face. “He was around a few minutes ago.” Her voice was neutral, careful.

Lee squinted, eyes dragging over her a little too long. “What’re you doing just sitting out here in the hot sun?”

Y/N’s expression sharpened. “Enjoying the peace and quiet.”

The words were a warning. Lee either missed it or ignored it. Somewhere, hidden in the dark, Jungkook smirked. She wasn’t playing along. Not with Lee. But with him? With Jungkook? She already had. And neither of them knew how deep they’d fallen in already.

Jungkook, tucked just beyond sight, grinned. Lee was floundering, barely keeping up with the sharp barbs in Y/N’s voice. It was tempting to stay, to see just how thoroughly she would dismantle the man. She had a way of cutting straight through the bullshit, and Jungkook would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy watching it.

But there were more pressing matters.

He slid his goggles up to his forehead, forcing himself to push thoughts of her aside. She had already distracted him enough, and he couldn’t afford to lose focus now. Something about this planet had been gnawing at him since they’d crashed.

It wasn’t just the oppressive brightness of the three suns, or the eerie silence that stretched between the gusts of wind. It was something deeper. Something wrong.

Jungkook scanned the horizon, wishing for the impossible. If the suns would just set, he could orient himself—trace the constellations, find a way off this rock. But that didn’t seem likely. Not here.

Instead, he turned his attention to the ground, to the faint clicking noises that had been scratching at his senses since they’d landed.

The wrong kind of quiet.

He moved carefully, his footsteps soundless, his breath even. He didn’t know what he was looking for yet. But he knew it wasn’t far.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

On the outskirts of the settlement, where the land cracked and the wind carried whispers of what once was, Jungkook crouched in the dirt. His fingers sifted through a scatter of forgotten relics—discarded, broken, yet still clinging to the ghosts of their past lives. A pair of fractured eyeglasses, a rusted flashlight, the battered frame of a child’s tin robot.

Leo and Soobin lingered a few steps behind, silent observers in the fading twilight.

“What’s he doing?” Soobin’s voice barely disturbed the hush.

“Being weird,” Leo muttered, but he, too, remained rooted in place.

Jungkook’s hand hovered over the tin robot’s solar panel, the remnants of its once-bright paint dulled by time and filth. With a swipe of his sleeve, he cleared the grime. A stuttering whir broke the silence, and the robot jolted to life, its joints creaking in protest.

Static crackled through a tiny, corroded speaker. The voice that emerged was distorted, broken, yet eerily resolute:

"...to all intruders. I am the guardian of this land. I will protect my masters at all costs. Death to all intruders..."

Jungkook smirked, watching as the tinny proclamation faltered, fading into silence. But his amusement didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze shifted, drawn to the looming structure beyond the debris.

A building. It stood tall and defiant, its windowless facade riddled with rust, its heavy metal doors sealed tight beneath a corroded lock. He stepped closer, dragging his sleeve across a weathered sign bolted beside the entrance.

CORING ROOM.

Something shifted behind the glass. A flicker of movement.

Jungkook stilled. His breath shallowed. His muscles coiled. He squinted into the dimness, searching. But whatever had stirred was gone. The silence inside felt too thick, too absolute. Jungkook hated that kind of quiet.

“Missin’ the party.”

Lee’s voice cut through the stillness, a tether yanking him back to the present. There was a warning threaded in his tone. A reminder.

Jungkook exhaled sharply. With a muttered curse, he upended a rusted trash bin, sending its contents scattering across the ground.

“Missin’ the party,” he echoed, voice laced with mockery. “C’mon.”

Leo and Soobin hesitated. Their gazes lingered on the coring room, the secrets it swallowed whole. Then, wordlessly, they turned to follow.

But Soobin lagged behind. His pulse tapped against his ribs as he stared at the building’s darkened glass. The window was streaked with dust, but something about it set his teeth on edge. A shiver crawled up his spine, slow and deliberate. Curiosity won out.

One glance over his shoulder—once, twice—confirmed that no one was watching. He moved forward, drawn in by something nameless, something wrong. The door was ajar. Just enough for him to slip inside. He hesitated.

Then he stepped into the dark.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The main room of the settlement was dimly lit, its air thick with dust and unspoken tension. The Chrislams sat in a tight circle, handling their crystal goblets with the kind of care reserved for sacred relics. Each drop of cloudy, sediment-laden water felt like a fragile victory, stolen from the clutches of an unforgiving world.

Namjoon’s voice rose in solemn prayer, threading through the silence like a beacon.

“For this, our gift of drink, we give thanks in the name of our Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, and to our Lord, Jesus Christ of Nazareth, and to His father, Allah the Compassionate and the Merciful.”

The survivors listened in silence, their weariness momentarily replaced by something hovering between respect and reverence. Even Peter, the ever-cynical bastard, muttered under his breath, “Strangest religion I’ve ever seen…” But for once, there was no venom behind the words.

Goblets passed from hand to hand, each survivor taking a slow, measured sip. Jungkook received the last glass, thick with grit and unfiltered debris. Without hesitation, he tilted it back, drinking deep. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the moment stretching long enough for someone to say something—a joke, a jab, a challenge.

No one did. Instead, they drank slowly, savoring the water like it was a rare vintage. The silence in the room spoke louder than words.

Peter finally broke the quiet, raising his goblet with a wry smile. “Perhaps we should toast our hosts. Who were these people, anyway? Miners?”

Bindi’s eyes swept the room, taking in the scattered remnants of lives abandoned mid-motion. “Looks like geologists,” she murmured. “Advance team, moving from rock to rock, probably surveying for resources.”

Y/N’s head snapped up, her gaze locking onto Bindi’s. “What makes you say that?”

Bindi shrugged, gesturing vaguely around the room. “The equipment. Field packs, sample cases. That storage unit back there? It’s filled with core samples. If they were miners, we’d be seeing drills, not rock collections.”

Y/N’s stomach coiled tight, the pieces falling into place in a way she didn’t like. The skiff they found… it was at least forty years old. She ran through every geological mission she could recall in the past few decades. Helion research teams. Corporate-funded surveyors. Independent prospectors. There had been plenty, but none that immediately fit.

Unless—

Her breath caught.

Unless it was one of those missions. The kind no one talked about. The kind that never made it to public records. Things like the Nexus missions.

She knew those more than most because she had been part of three different Nexus missions. Her mind raced as she thought of the possibilities. The planet didn’t match the usual colonization efforts, but sending geologists over a different type of crew would mean it was a resource operation—a good gauge to see the value of a planet otherwise unlikely to gain any real traction as a colony due to the weather and conditions.

They couldn’t have known what lived here at the time, or the creatures did not pose any real threat. Still, that did not explain the abandoned equipment. There were only five human-funded missions that ended badly that she could recall, and only two of them matched the description of this world.

The only thing she could hope for was that she was wrong.

Y/N forced her voice into neutrality, not wanting to show her hand just yet. “Could’ve been anything,” she muttered, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Geologists, miners, explorers. Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Bindi frowned, sensing something unspoken, but didn’t press.

Lee grunted, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Musta crapped out here, huh?”

A beat of silence.

“But why did they leave their ship?”

The question came from Leo, cutting through the fragile stillness. His voice was quiet. But the tremor in it betrayed him. Nobody answered. The question lingered in the air like a ghost, heavy and unwelcome.

Y/N swallowed hard, glancing toward the skiff, its battered frame silhouetted against the dying light. Her gut twisted. She had a terrible feeling. The kind that usually turned out right. But she wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Not yet. Because if she did, it would mean they were already too late.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Outside, something stirred.

The coring room—unnoticed by those inside—began to wake up.

A solar panel tilted upward, catching the harsh light of the twin suns. Metal joints groaned, storm shutters on the roof creaking open like the exhalation of something long-dormant. Deep inside, old ventilation systems whined as they adjusted to the change. Machines hissed, sluggish but waking.

Something clicked. Something shifted.

Soobin stood frozen inside the coring room, his breath shallow, his heart pounding against his ribs like a warning drum.

The first sound had startled him—the metal shifting, the machinery adjusting—but it was the next one that rooted him to the spot.

A soft, skittering shuffle. It was faint. Barely there. But instinct wrapped its icy fingers around his spine. Soobin didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Because some part of him—some deep, animal part of his brain that still remembered the old fears from when humanity huddled in caves—was already screaming.

You are not alone.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The main room of the settlement felt smaller than before, as if the walls were closing in, pressing against the survivors with the weight of unspoken fears. The conversation continued, but the unease was growing.

“Well, just a skiff,” Lee said, shrugging in response to Leo’s earlier question. “Disposable, really.”

Peter, ever the cynic, swirled the last of his water as if it were a glass of fine scotch. “Like an emergency life-raft?”

“Sure,” Bindi agreed, her voice casual, too casual. “Coulda had a proper drop-ship take them off-planet. Long gone by now.”

Peter raised his goblet in mock cheer, his smirk returning. “A toast to their ghosts, then—”

A new voice cut through the air like a blade.

“They didn’t leave.”

The room froze.

Jungkook leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming, the weight of his words settling over them like a curse no one wanted to name. “Whatever got Daku got them.”

His tone was flat, certain, unshakable. “They’re all dead.”

Silence swallowed the room whole. The words hung there, clawing at their nerves, too terrible to dismiss. No one moved. No one breathed. The idea had been spoken aloud. And now, it couldn’t be taken back.

Jungkook’s voice lowered, but the intensity remained razor-sharp. “What, you don’t really think they left with their clothes still on the lines?” His gaze cut through them, demanding they face the truth. “Photos still on the walls? Equipment still powered up?”

He let the question hang. “C’mon. You don’t walk away from a settlement like this unless something’s coming for you.”

Bindi’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists. “Maybe they had weight limits,” she snapped. Denial. Pure and desperate. “You don’t know.”

Jungkook didn’t flinch. “I know you don’t uncrate your emergency ship unless there’s a fucking emergency.”

The words landed like a blade to the throat. No one argued.

Lee exhaled sharply, frustration edging into his voice. “Rag it, Jungkook,” he growled. “Nobody wants your theories—”

But Y/N leaned forward, her expression grim, her voice dead calm. “So what happened? Where are they, then?”

She silently agreed with Jungkook, though she kept it to herself. She admired his boldness, the way he spoke without hesitation, without concern for how his words landed. He didn’t sugarcoat, didn’t try to make things easier. She wished she could be more like that, less careful, less afraid of shattering hope.

Her question landed like a hammer. The silence that followed was suffocating. Because no one wanted to answer. Because the answer wasn’t one they wanted to accept.

Namjoon was the first to break. His voice was quiet, but insistent.

“Has anyone seen the young one? Soobin?”

A new kind of silence settled over them. A silence that hissed. That slithered. That felt like something pressing against their chests, waiting to squeeze.

Heads turned. Eyes searched. No one saw him.

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change—didn’t even flicker—but something sharpened in his gaze. His posture shifted, muscles coiling beneath his skin. He spoke slowly, each word deliberate.

“Has anyone checked the coring room?”

The air grew colder, despite the relentless heat of the three suns outside.

Y/N’s stomach turned to stone. And then, somewhere in the distance—

Clickity-click.

Clickity-click.

The sound wasn’t the beads this time.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The coring room was too quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full—waiting.

Grooooooan.

The storm shutters inched open, metal scraping against metal in a slow, tortured protest. The sound echoed through the chamber, rattling rusted beams, disturbing the dust that clung to the air like a ghost. A sliver of alien sunlight sliced through the dark, pooling across the cracked concrete floor.

It revealed just enough. Just enough to see that the room was not empty.

Soobin’s breath hitched. The air smelled wrong. Faintly metallic, faintly organic—something sickly, something rotting. His muscles locked, every nerve on edge.

Above him, the rafters stretched high into the dark. And something hung from them. His stomach lurched. Nests.

Bulging, fibrous masses clung to the ceiling, webbed together with thick, sinewy strands. They weren’t abandoned. They pulsed—faint, rhythmic, as if something inside them was breathing.

Click. Click.

The sound was soft. Claws against metal. A faint, deliberate skittering. Above him. Soobin didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The noise multiplied. Spreading. Growing. Closing in.

His pulse hammered against his ribs. The narrow gap in the shutters—the sliver of daylight he’d squeezed through to get in—was his only way out.

Move.

Boots scuffing against the floor, he bolted for the light. His fingers stretched toward it, desperate—

Something shifted in the rafters. He glanced up. His breath died in his throat. The light had caught something. Something inside the nests. The fibers weren’t just woven strands of plant matter. They were glistening. Wet from the inside. And moving.

CRACK.

The nest erupted. A seam split down the middle, splitting like overripe fruit. And from inside— the swarm. A mass of writhing bodies, too many legs, too many claws, too many mouths.

The screeching hit him like a physical force. High-pitched. Layered. Crawling into his skull, filling every space between thought and fear. Soobin stumbled, his lungs locking, the instinct to run slamming into his chest. But the swarm had already seen him. And it was hungry.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The scream tore through the thick, humid air—raw, desperate, a sound so sharp it felt like it could cut.

Namjoon’s head snapped up.

For a second—just a second—everything else disappeared. The murmuring voices. The shifting bodies. The low hum of the failing generators. Gone. Only the scream remained.

Soobin. The name formed in his mind like a bullet in a chamber.

He didn’t say it—he breathed it. An exhale of dread. And then he was moving. Not thinking. Just running. Boots pounding against the dirt, lungs burning, heart slamming against his ribs.

Nothing else mattered. Not the others shouting after him. Not the sudden scramble of bodies trying to keep up. Not even the cold, creeping terror twisting around his spine, sinking its claws into his skin. Because he knew.

He knew before he even reached the coring room. Knew that the scream wasn’t just fear. It was a warning.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The nests, once silent and pulsing like dormant sentinels, began to rupture. One after another, they tore open with sickening, wet tears that echoed through the air. The sound was visceral—like overripe fruit, splitting under unseen pressure, spilling its dark contents into the dim, suffocating chamber.

A jagged, screeching noise filled the room, like knives dragged against stone. Sleek, winged horrors poured from the ruptured shells, their chitinous bodies glistening in the faint light. The reflection of their obsidian skin danced across the walls, catching every sliver of light that dared to pierce the gloom. Their wings churned the air, beating in frantic rhythm, an unnerving metallic hum that sank deep into the bones—a vibration that spoke of death.

Their talons, curved like fire-tipped scythes, slashed through the air with a terrifying precision. The darkness seemed to pulse with their frantic movement, the sharp sound of claws cutting through the dust and decay filling every corner of the chamber.

Soobin’s breath hitched, the overwhelming sense of dread crashing over him like a tidal wave. The exit, his only hope, was gone. The sliver of daylight, the promise of escape, had been obliterated, swallowed whole by the writhing, slashing black tide.

And then the swarm descended.

A flurry of wings, claws, and screeches filled the room, overwhelming his senses, suffocating him in a sea of terror. Soobin stumbled, his body moving on instinct, panic clawing at his ribs. Every muscle screamed at him to run, to survive. His mind raced for a way out—anything, anywhere.

But before he could think, one of the creatures dove toward him, its talons flashing like a streak of death. The pain was instant—a burning sting across his side that tore through him like a knife. He barely registered it, the world narrowing to a single thought: escape.

To the left—a door. A storage room.

He lunged, ignoring the sting, the weakness in his legs, the pounding in his chest. He ran with everything he had, the screeching swarm closing in behind him. Their claws scraped the air, reaching for him, and he pushed harder, slamming into the door with all his remaining strength. The door swung open and he hurled himself inside.

The second it clicked shut behind him, he collapsed, his body crashing against the shelves. Dust billowed up around him as his chest heaved, gasping for air. The creatures outside battered the door, their talons scraping across the metal like nails on a coffin lid. Each strike sent a shiver down his spine, the reality of his situation sinking in with brutal clarity.

His hands trembled as he fumbled for the bolt, his fingers slick with blood as he pressed them to his side. He slammed the bolt home, the creaking sound of rusted metal locking him into the room with a finality that echoed in his bones. Silence followed. Almost.

His breath was ragged, his pulse pounding in his ears. The blood—warm and slick—seeped through his fingers. It wasn’t deep, but it burned, as though the wound itself was alive, feeding on him. Poison? Infection? He didn’t know. Not yet. It didn’t matter.

He sucked in a breath and forced his vision to clear, blinking against the dizziness that threatened to take over. The room was dark, the shadows pooling thick in every corner, stretching across the forgotten shelves. The air was stale, thick with the weight of time and neglect. He couldn’t focus on that now. He had to find a way out.

His eyes scanned the clutter—boxes, long-forgotten tools, shattered glass. Anything. He needed a weapon. He needed something—anything—to give him a fighting chance.

Because this? This was just borrowed time.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The survivors ran, their boots hammering against the cracked earth, sending plumes of dust spiraling into the air as they sprinted through the settlement. Breath came fast, shallow, their bodies pushed to the edge of exhaustion. The air was thick with panic, vibrating with the frantic pulse of their flight, the sound of their desperation weaving into an unbearable rhythm beneath the oppressive glare of the twin suns.

Behind them, Jungkook didn’t move.

He stood by the water goblets, fingers idly tracing the rim of one as he drained the last, murky remnants in a single swallow. His silvered eyes flickered, watching the chaos unfold with a calm that was almost predatory—detached, observing, as if the terror around him were nothing more than an inconvenient distraction.

The supply room door exploded outward.

With a scream of tortured metal, it was torn from its frame, sending a tremor through the coring room. Namjoon surged forward, shoving past Lee, his heart pounding in his chest, his face drained of color. There was something about the way his skin had gone pale, the way his pulse seemed to freeze in his veins, that twisted the air into a suffocating knot of dread.

“Soobin?”

The name fell from his lips, a whisper of desperation, half prayer, half fear.

A rustling sound echoed from inside—soft, uncertain.

"Soobin?"

Namjoon’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but the rising terror. He reached for the handle of the supply room door, his fingers trembling. The world inside was chaos.

Wet, fibrous husks split apart, spilling out a writhing, living storm of pale, winged horrors. The swarm burst from the shadows, their bodies gleaming like polished obsidian, their talons flashing like serrated razors catching the last fragments of light. They screamed, a sound that pierced the air, alien and unholy, like something crawling beneath the skin. The creatures poured into the room, their wings slicing through the dust-choked light, moving with an unnerving precision, as if their every movement had been calculated, predatory.

Namjoon stumbled back, gasping—but then his eyes locked onto something.

The thing that tumbled to the ground. A bloodied, shredded heap of flesh and bone.

Once, it had been Soobin.

Namjoon froze.

The sight stole the breath from his lungs—the torn limbs, the vacant brown eyes staring into nothingness, the way his body had been hollowed out, broken, like the creatures had made a home inside him before deciding to leave. The swarm had claimed him.

A sound clawed its way from Namjoon’s throat—grief, raw and staggering, choking him as he dropped to his knees beside the mangled remains of the boy. His hands shook violently as he reached out, fingertips brushing the cold, lifeless skin. Soobin had been young. Too young. He had whispered prayers, had laughed, had been here. And now he was nothing but remains, scattered across the floor like discarded refuse.

Behind him, Lee and Y/N inched forward, drawn by the silence that had followed the chaos. Their eyes flicked downward, following the trail to the open coring shaft. The bones, littered along its jagged walls, were picked clean, stripped bare. A graveyard, hidden beneath their very feet, had remained undisturbed all this time.

Under the pale blue sunrise, the Chrislams gathered, their voices weaving solemn, whispered prayers for the dead. Peter and Leo stood among them, their heads bowed in respectful silence.

Jungkook lingered at the edge of the settlement, his back turned, his eyes fixed on the horizon—as if waiting. But for what, no one knew.

Bindi broke first.

“Why the hell was the door chained up?” she demanded, her fists clenched, voice cracking with fury. “Why would they lock themselves in like that?”

Lee’s expression was unreadable, his eyes dark with something like frustration or maybe grief. He exhaled sharply. “Not sure,” he muttered, but his voice was edged with something harder. “But I’ll tell you this—the Chrislams better not be out there diggin’ another grave.”

Jungkook’s voice sliced through the tension, cutting across the conversation like a blade.

“It wasn’t about graves.”

All eyes turned toward him.

He stood leaning against the doorframe, his silvered eyes glinting in the dim light. His posture was relaxed, but there was an edge to him now, something sharper, knowing—a quiet threat beneath his calm exterior.

He took a slow step forward, his gaze flicking between the group.

“The other buildings weren’t secure,” he said flatly, his voice a quiet certainty. “So they ran here. Heaviest doors. Thought they’d be safe inside, but…” His gaze shifted toward the coring shaft, toward the bones that littered the space. He gestured with a slow flick of his wrist. “Someone forgot to lock the back door.”

Bindi’s jaw tightened, her breath catching in her throat as she followed his gaze.

To the evidence of the dead.

Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with the weight of grief and a fury that clung to her every word. "So that's what came of me, Daku. And you saw it. You was right there."

Jungkook nodded, a small, deliberate movement. He didn’t look away from her, his expression unreadable.

Bindi’s anger flared, her trembling hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her words hit like a hammer, the accusation sharp and biting. "You were tryin' to kill him too."

It wasn’t a question. It was a truth she was forcing him to face.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it. Instead, he shrugged—a slow, calculated motion, as if weighing her anger and finding it lacking.

"Just wanted his O-2," he said, his voice flat, the words hanging in the air between them like a challenge.

There was no apology. No remorse. Only cold, unvarnished truth.

Then, after a beat, he added, "Though I noticed he tried to ghost me first."

A smirk played across his lips—razor-sharp, unrepentant.

Bindi’s expression faltered, just for a moment. Because she knew. Because he was right. Soobin had tried to avoid them all. Tried to slip away before anyone could get close enough.

The silence stretched, thick and taut like a wire pulled too tight, waiting for the snap.

Without a word, Bindi reached up and pulled off her breather. She held it out to him.

"Take it."

Jungkook’s silvered eyes narrowed, studying her with a calculating gaze. "What, it’s broken?"

She shook her head. "Startin’ to acclimate, anyhow."

Her voice softened, as if the harshness that had defined their conversation up to that point had somehow dulled. "Take it."

For a long moment, Jungkook hesitated, his gaze flicking between the breather and her steady hands. Then, with a sharp breath, he accepted it. He held it to his face, inhaling deeply, his chest rising as the oxygen filled his lungs.

Across the room, Lee scowled. His arms were crossed tight, his expression unreadable, but the disapproval in his posture was unmistakable. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to—but it sat heavy in the air like a weight they were all too familiar with.

No one acknowledged it.

Y/N didn’t even notice. She had drifted toward a metal counter, her fingers brushing absently over the rows of coring samples lined up neatly in glass containers. Each sample had a date etched into its side, preserving a history in stone, a silent record of time passed.

Her eyes flicked over the samples, reading each number carefully, until she stopped.

Her stomach dropped.

"Sixty years ago," she murmured, almost to herself.

Lee’s head snapped toward her. "What?"

"These samples," she said, her voice tight. She pointed. "The last one’s from sixty years ago. This month."

Bindi frowned, uneasy. "Yeah? What’s special about that?"

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She hovered over the glass, her fingers still, her mind spinning, calculating the pieces of the puzzle before she could stop herself.

She had known. The skiff. The design. The outdated, forgotten metalwork that had felt both familiar and wrong. It wasn’t eleven years old. No. It was almost sixty-three. It had been updated a few times, yes, but she now realized what she’d missed. The wires were made of copper.

And then it hit her.

A single word formed in her mind, cold and stark, a death sentence wrapped in syllables.

Hades.

M6-117. The failed colony. The graveyard of Aguerra Prime’s last great ships. And the birthplace of the creatures that had torn it all apart.

The blood drained from her face as the realization slammed into her chest.

The eclipse.

The darkness here wasn’t just a few hours of nightfall. It wasn’t a half-day cycle, not some minor inconvenience they could wait out.

It would last for three days.

Three days in which this planet would become a breeding ground for nightmares.

And they wouldn’t have that long.

Her breath shallow, Y/N’s mind raced through the calculations, faster than she could stop them, faster than she could control them. The truth came crashing through her, each piece falling into place with a sickening clarity.

This place would be swarmed.

The bioraptors wouldn’t wait. They wouldn’t wait for the sun to rise again. They would come the moment the last sliver of light disappeared. And once they did, they wouldn’t stop. Not until everything was consumed.

Y/N turned sharply toward the group, her heart pounding in her chest. Her voice, barely above a whisper, trembled as she spoke.

“The planet…” She swallowed, fighting to keep her composure, “…it goes dark.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, thick with the weight of the truth. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing in on them from every side. It was as if the very room had turned cold with the realization of what she’d just said.

Lee stared at her, his face unreadable, though his eyes seemed to flicker with disbelief—or perhaps with the refusal to understand.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” His voice was hoarse, raw, as if the concept itself was too monstrous to grasp.

Bindi went still, her breath catching in her throat. She wasn’t sure if she had heard her right, but the dread that crept up her spine told her otherwise.

Namjoon’s fingers curled into tight fists, the knuckles whitening as his body tensed, his mind racing to catch up with the horror of the revelation.

Peter let out a slow breath, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found. His face had gone pale, the sharp edge of his humor dulled by the gravity of the situation.

Jungkook, still leaning against the wall, tilted his head slightly, studying her with those unreadable silvered eyes.

And then, a smirk.

"Not afraid of the dark, are you?" His voice was low, almost teasing, but there was a sharpness to it that didn’t belong.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The settlement hummed with nervous energy, the kind that thrummed beneath the skin, palpable in the tense air. People moved frantically through the dusty yard, scrambling to prepare for whatever was coming. There was no time to waste, no room for hesitation. Y/N crossed the yard with wide, purposeful strides, boots kicking up small clouds of dirt with each step. Her mind raced ahead of her body, her thoughts colliding in a jumble as she muttered to herself.

“…need those cells from the crash ship. Shit, still gotta check the hull, patch the wings—”

Before she could take another step, Lee was in her path, blocking her way with that familiar, steady presence. His voice, calm but firm, sliced through the air like a sharp blade.

“Let’s wait on the power cells,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, though he fully expected one.

Y/N came to a halt, her eyes flashing with disbelief. She shot him an incredulous look, her frustration bubbling over. “Wait for what? Until it’s so dark we can’t even find our way back to—”

Lee interrupted her, his gaze unwavering. “We don’t know when it’s going to happen. So let’s not—”

“Get the fucking cells over here, Lee,” she snapped, her voice tight with irritation. “What’s the discussion?”

For a moment, Lee said nothing. He studied her, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he seemed to weigh his response. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he asked, “Ever tell you how Jungkook escaped?”

The sharp edge of Y/N’s anger dulled immediately, replaced by confusion. She froze, her brows furrowing. “No,” she replied cautiously, unsure of where this was heading.

Lee crossed his arms, the shift in his stance giving nothing away. “Do you want to know?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers brushing nervously against her thighs as she tried to suppress a growing unease. “Depends,” she muttered, a sigh escaping her lips. “Is it important?”

Lee didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned, his pace unhurried as he walked toward the skiff. Over his shoulder, he threw her a glance. “Come on. It’s not a short story.”

The interior of the skiff was dim, the air thick and stifling, heavy with the hum of the systems. Y/N leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to contain the swirling questions in her mind. Lee paced slowly in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes distant as if recalling something buried deep within.

“Jungkook’s story starts at Ribald S Correctional Institute,” Lee began, his voice low, measured. “Hell of a place—high walls, razor wire, guards who shoot first and ask questions never. He didn’t last three years there before he made his move. Overpowered a guard, took his uniform, and shot two more, along with the pilot of the only space freighter on the planet. He was gone before anyone knew what was happening. Left bodies behind like they were breadcrumbs.”

Y/N shifted uncomfortably, but she didn’t interrupt. Her eyes followed Lee’s every movement, her mind trying to piece together the strange, dangerous man she thought she knew.

“The Company slapped a million-credit bounty on his head,” Lee continued, his voice turning colder. “And every bounty hunter, mercenary, and wannabe tough guy with a blaster went after him. He didn’t just escape them—he killed them. One after another. Every death added to his list, and that list grew fast. You know what they called him? A serial killer. A damn sociopath. Psychological evaluations said he was irredeemable, nothing but violence wrapped in flesh. And I believe it.”

Lee paused, his gaze hardening as he leaned in, the weight of his words sinking deeper. Y/N’s pulse quickened, her body tightening as the truth began to unfold.

“Ribald wasn’t the only place,” Lee went on, his voice growing more intense. “He broke out of Hubble Bay, Tangiers, some place called Psychological Restraint Station Q9—you name it, he’s escaped it. Killed guards, medics, other prisoners—hell, he even killed people who tried to help him. Once, during a war, he joined up with a mercenary outfit. Five hundred men in that unit, and guess how many made it off the planet alive? One. Him. The rumor is he killed most of his own men to save his own skin.”

Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of Lee’s words settling heavily in her stomach.

“And then there was Slam City,” Lee continued, his voice dropping lower, colder. “Ursa Luna Penal Facility. Maximum security, the kind of place people don’t walk out of. He was brought in cryosleep, but when they woke him up to prove he was alive, he killed one of the mercs who delivered him and stole the other’s gear. Used it to bribe his way through the facility. It took him less than half a day to break out, leaving a trail of bodies behind him. And when I say bodies, I mean everyone. Guards, prisoners, anyone in his way.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides. “And no one stopped him?”

“Oh, plenty tried,” Lee replied, a bitter smile twisting at the edges of his lips. “Every time they caught him, he’d find a way to escape. He escaped Butcher Bay, one of the most secure prisons in the galaxy, by working the system. Stabbed me in the ribs once, damn near killed me. Then there was the Dark Athena, a merc ship. He slaughtered most of the crew—some of them were drones, sure, but a lot of them weren’t. Killed them all the same. There was a little girl onboard, Raye. Rumor is he helped her, but who knows why? Maybe he’s got some twisted code, maybe not. Either way, he left a pile of corpses in his wake.”

Y/N’s voice dropped, quieter now, almost hesitant. “You said he can pilot?”

Lee’s expression hardened, his gaze like granite. “Damn right he can. Jungkook’s not just some thug with a gun. He’s hijacked ships, stolen freighters right out from under their crews, outmaneuvered entire squads of mercenaries in space battles, and made it look easy. You put him in a cockpit, and he’ll turn that ship into a weapon faster than you can blink. Ex-Military. Ranger from Sigma 3. Smart fucker, I’ll give him that.”

Y/N furrowed her brow, her lips pressing into a thin line. The weight of Lee’s words hung heavy in the air, but a flicker of something else sparked in her. A hope. She wasn’t blind to Jungkook’s past—hell, she knew the kind of man he was. But it wasn’t lost on her that, despite his history, he’d been nothing but helpful to them. He’d risked his life more than once. And maybe… maybe that was worth something.

“Okay,” she said slowly, a hint of uncertainty in her voice as she pieced something together in her mind. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I can use him—use that—to help with—”

Lee cut her off, his voice like a knife. “He kills the pilot he steals from, Y/N.”

The flicker of hope died instantly, snuffed out by the coldness in his words. Y/N felt the blood drain from her face, her stomach churning. A shiver crept up her spine, and for a moment, she thought she might actually feel sick.

“You said we were going to trust him now,” she said, her voice lowering, almost accusing. “You said there was a deal.”

“That’s what I said,” Lee replied, his tone measured. But the way he looked at her—the steady, unyielding gaze—spoke volumes. He didn’t expect her to like it, but he didn’t care, either.

Y/N’s jaw tightened, a spark of anger flaring behind her eyes. She wasn’t about to back down. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Lee.”

Lee shrugged, unbothered, his tone turning as matter-of-fact as if he were describing the weather. “May’ve noticed chains don’t work on this guy. Prisons don’t either. The only way we’re truly safe is if he believes he’s going free. But the moment he stops believin’—”

“You mean,” Y/N interjected sharply, her voice tinged with disbelief, “if he figures out you’re going to royally fuck him over?”

“—we need a fail-safe,” Lee finished, ignoring her jab completely, his gaze unflinching. His words carried the weight of absolute conviction. “Bring the cells over at the last possible minute. When the wings are patched, when we’re fueled, when we’re ready to launch. Not a second before.”

Y/N stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face. She didn’t find any flicker of doubt, any hesitation. It was all cold calculation. She hated it.

“You know,” she said softly, the words slipping out before she could stop them, “he hasn’t harmed any of us. Not once. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even lied to us. Just stick to the deal, Lee. Let him go if that’s what it takes to keep the peace.”

Lee shook his head slowly, his expression darkening like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. “He’s a murderer,” he said, his voice low, filled with finality. “The law says he’s gotta do his bid. What kind of lawman would I be if I let him walk?”

Y/N sighed, her shoulders slumping as she turned away from him, frustration etched into her features. “We’re dancing on razor blades here, Lee. Every step you take just makes it worse.”

Lee’s jaw tightened. His words became even colder, sharper. “I won’t give him the chance to grab another ship—or to slash another pilot’s throat.” His words landed with the finality of a verdict, his stance unyielding, like the rocks surrounding the settlement.

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She stared at him, her expression unreadable. Finally, her voice, when it came, was quiet, but laced with a warning that cut deeper than any shouted words.

“Careful, Lee. You’re playing god with a devil who doesn’t miss a chance to prove he’s smarter than everyone else. Just hope you’ve got it all figured out before he does.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the skiff, her footsteps fading into the distance, leaving Lee standing there, unmoved but not entirely certain. His hand rested lightly on the weapon at his side, as if he wasn’t fully convinced his plan would hold.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The sun hung low in the sky, casting the settlement in fiery hues of orange and deep blue. The day’s heat lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, as shadows stretched long and sharp across the cracked earth. A faint hum of repairs blended with the buzz of insects, creating a low, constant undertone to the scene. The atmosphere was heavy with more than just the oppressive heat—it was the unspoken tension that clung to everything, to every person, like dust that couldn’t be shaken off.

Y/N wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing grit and heat across her skin. It seemed to stick to her no matter how many times she wiped it away, the dust, the weight, the burn of it all pressing down like a constant reminder that there was no escape here. She glanced toward the skiff, where Jungkook was setting up a makeshift field table. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. He was a study of unhurried confidence, every motion drawing the eye without effort.

And damn it, she couldn’t stop herself from looking.

He wore his miner’s goggles, the thick black lenses reflecting the dying light of the sun, making his face unreadable—yet no less striking. His sharp jawline, the way his lips curved with a silent smirk—there was something about him that didn’t belong in this world. His presence, his beauty, it felt out of place among the grime and the chaos. But it was more than just his face. It was the way he moved—fluid, deliberate—like every gesture was calculated to leave an impression.

Her gaze lingered, unwillingly drawn to the strength in his shoulders, the calloused hands that knew how to handle a blade as easily as they handled tools. She hated how easily her thoughts strayed, how attractive she found him even in the middle of all this dirt and sweat. Maybe especially then. It infuriated her.

And Jungkook wasn’t helping. He thrived on attention, basked in it like it was air. He knew exactly how to command a room without saying a word, and he’d caught her watching him before—dark eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and something far more dangerous.

Now, as he straightened from the table, blade in hand, he glanced her way, and she felt the weight of his gaze even through the black lenses of his goggles.

“You’re gonna overheat staring like that, Frenchie,” he teased, his voice smooth and cool, laced with that same edge that both irritated and captivated her.

Y/N scowled, her jaw tightening. She hated that damn nickname. He’d picked it up after overhearing Captain Marshall call her that, a name she’d liked—until Jungkook twisted it, turned it into something that made her skin prickle.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, pretending to refocus her attention on the monitors inside the skiff.

But of course, she couldn’t stop the awareness of him as he moved closer, the scent of sweat and sun-warmed leather trailing behind him like an unfairly appealing cloud. Damn him.

Jungkook leaned casually against the skiff’s hatch, spinning the blade idly between his fingers. “You always this charming when you’re working, or is it just me?”

“It’s just you,” she muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen, but the words came out sharper than she intended.

He chuckled, low and rich, a sound that sent an unwelcome shiver racing down her spine. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Y/N clenched her jaw, trying to focus on the task at hand. The hull integrity test was inching closer to completion, the numbers climbing steadily—but her thoughts were scattered, tripping over the presence of the man who refused to let her focus. His proximity didn’t help. His presence was maddening, impossible to ignore.

“You know,” Jungkook said, his voice softer now, almost catching her off guard, “you’re damn smart. Resourceful, too. I’d trust you to fix just about anything.”

Her fingers faltered for a second, just a brief hesitation that betrayed her. She hated the way his words snuck under her skin. “Thanks,” she muttered, keeping her eyes locked firmly on the screen.

“And you smell nice,” he added, the teasing lilt unmistakable. “Even covered in sweat and blood.”

Y/N’s head snapped up, her glare immediately locking onto him. “You’re unbelievable.”

Jungkook grinned, clearly entertained, and straightened up from his casual perch. “What? Can’t a guy give a compliment?”

She stepped closer, her irritation outweighing her better judgment. “If you’re done being a nuisance, maybe you could actually contribute to the mission.”

His smirk deepened, his eyes sweeping over her before settling on her face, as though he were reading her every thought. “Careful, Frenchie. You’re starting to sound like you might actually enjoy having me around.”

“I’d enjoy it more if you kept your mouth shut,” she snapped back, but her pulse betrayed her, quickening under his gaze, her body betraying the sharp edge of her words.

Jungkook leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low and smug. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Before Y/N could respond, the sound of boots crunching on the dirt broke the tension between them. Lee approached, his blond hair tinged red from the dust swirling in the air. His face was as unreadable as ever, but Y/N couldn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on them—just long enough for her to catch the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked between her and Jungkook.

She had noticed it before—the way his eyes followed her, burning into her skin as she moved through the space, a constant weight she couldn't shake. But confronting it would only make things worse. The tension within the team was already fraying, edges ready to snap, and adding more fractures wasn’t going to help anyone. Still, today was different. Jungkook’s movements were off—less sure, more erratic. His hands shook faintly as they worked. Y/N’s stomach twisted with concern. This planet, with its oppressive atmosphere and constant pressure shifts, wasn’t a place for humans to thrive, and the toll it was taking on him, despite his attempts to hide it, was beginning to show.

Jungkook noticed too. He didn’t address Lee right away, but when his gaze finally landed on him, it was with unnerving precision—an almost predatory focus that made Y/N uneasy. A slow smirk spread across his face, sharp and mocking. “Bad sign, shakin’ like that in this heat,” he drawled, his voice smooth but biting.

Lee stiffened, his jaw tightening at the remark, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he brushed past Jungkook, his focus now set firmly on something else.

The Chrislams arrived then, carrying a roll of Vectran. Their quiet voices mingled with the low hum of the skiff’s systems as they conferred about their next steps. Namjoon patted his side absently, searching for a knife.

“I’ll cut,” Jungkook offered, his voice calm but firm. With a fluid motion, a blade appeared in his hand, as though it had materialized from thin air. He handled it with precision, his fingers steady and confident as the blade sliced through the Vectran, its gleaming edge catching the dim light for a fleeting moment.

He passed the trimmed pieces to Yeonjun, who moved with a swift, graceful agility, scaling the wing struts of the skiff with the ease of someone who belonged in the air. Yeonjun delivered the material to Namjoon, who worked silently, his focus unwavering as he stitched the Vectran with meticulous care. For a moment, everything fell quiet, suspended in the weight of their work.

Yeonjun paused, his gaze shifting toward the horizon. The low-hanging sun cast long, eerie shadows across the barren landscape, and the air seemed to hold its breath. But the horizon remained still—quiet, for now.

Inside the skiff, Y/N exhaled, trying to refocus her mind on the monitors in front of her. The hull integrity test was nearly done, the numbers climbing steadily, but her thoughts kept straying, clinging to something she couldn’t quite shake. Jungkook’s presence. It lingered behind her like an invisible shadow.

The air inside the skiff was cooler, quieter—but Y/N felt anything but calm. Her fingers moved over the controls with methodical efficiency, scanning the gauges, but her mind churned, caught in the storm of unfinished business.

“Looks like we’re a few shy,” Jungkook’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and confident, slicing through the tension that had built up between them.

Y/N spun around, her pulse skipping in her chest. Jungkook stood near the depleted battery bay, Namjoon’s blade still twirling effortlessly between his fingers. His posture was relaxed, but the sharpness in his gaze, the way he was looking at her, made her blood run cold.

“Power cells,” he said, his tone light but probing.

“They’re coming,” she replied, her voice steadier than her nerves would suggest.

Jungkook tilted his head, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “Strange,” he mused, eyes flicking briefly to the controls. “Not doin’ a run-up on the main drive yet. Strange… unless Lee told you the particulars of my escape.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but she forced her face into neutral. “I got the long-and-ugly version,” she said, the words clipped, terse.

Jungkook stepped closer, unhurried but deliberate, the faintest tension in his movements. His voice dropped to a soft, dangerous murmur. “So you’re worried about a repeat performance?”

Y/N’s chest tightened. “It crossed our minds,” she bit back, her pulse quickening, her words sharper than she intended.

Jungkook’s smirk widened, but his tone shifted, softening into something almost tender. “I didn’t ask what crossed Lee’s mind. I asked what you think.”

Y/N squared her shoulders, fighting to keep her composure, but something in his eyes made her feel uncomfortably exposed. “You scare me,” she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “Happy now? Can I get back to work?”

She turned sharply, focusing all her attention back on the monitor, but the tremor in her fingers betrayed her, just enough to make her feel vulnerable.

Jungkook didn’t let up. He moved closer, his voice quieter, dropping into a dangerous intimacy. “You think Lee’s the kind of man to keep his word? Think I can trust him to cut me loose?”

Y/N hesitated, her gaze flicking to him despite herself. “Why? What’d you hear?”

A deep smirk stretched across Jungkook’s face, slow and deliberate. “Oh, nothing much. Just a thought. If it were treachery, he’d have done me by now. But I’m worth more alive, you see. Twice as much, in fact.”

The words hit hard, and Y/N’s stomach tightened. But she recovered quickly, her voice cold and sharp. “Save the mind games, Jungkook. We’re not gonna turn on each other, no matter how hard you try.”

Jungkook chuckled—a low, dark sound that sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned in just enough that she could feel his warmth, the proximity almost unbearable. His voice dropped to a whisper, each word deliberate, a quiet warning against her resolve. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen when the lights go out, Frenchie. But once the dyin’ starts, this psycho family of ours is gonna tear itself apart. You better figure out who’s standing behind you when it does.”

The monitor beeped sharply: HULL INTEGRITY—100%.

The hatch hissed open, letting in a cool rush of air, breaking the heavy tension. Jungkook straightened, his smirk returning to its usual infuriating curve.

“Oh,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with dark amusement, “ask him about those shakes. And why your buddy screamed like that before he died.”

And with that, he was gone, slipping out of the skiff like smoke, leaving her standing there, heart pounding and frustration simmering. Y/N forced her eyes back to the monitor, but her thoughts lingered on his parting words, the heat of his breath still lingering in the air. She hated how attractive she found him, how easy it was to fall into his rhythm, his dangerous charm.

And she hated even more that he probably knew it.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The box of red-metal shotgun shells sat on the table, gleaming faintly under the dim light of the cabin, a silent testament to the secrets they held. Lee’s hands moved methodically, his calloused fingers selecting one from the neatly arranged row. With a small twist and a quick snap, he cracked it open, revealing a tiny glass ampule hidden within the casing. The amber liquid inside caught the light for just a moment before he slid it into the barrel of a syringe. The hiss of the plunger followed, and he pressed the needle against the eager vein in his arm. For a fraction of a second, his muscles tensed, his body rejecting the foreign substance—but then, the drug took hold. His expression smoothed into something unreadable, the tension melting away.

“Who are you? Really?”

The voice startled him, pulling him from the haze of the drug’s effect. Lee’s head snapped up, his dark eyes meeting hers. Y/N stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and unyielding. There was a new edge to her—something colder, more dangerous than the familiar tension between them.

“You’re not a real cop, are you?” she pressed, her tone sharp, accusatory, as she stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

Lee remained silent, his eyes betraying nothing. He set the syringe down on the table, the sharp clink echoing between them.

“Just some mercenary who goes around talking about the law like—”

“I never said I was,” Lee interrupted, his voice calm, but laced with a warning that hung heavy in the air.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “And you never said you were a merc, either.” Her eyes flicked to the paraphernalia scattered across the table, and without hesitation, she began rummaging through his belongings. Her movements were bold, almost daring him to stop her.

It didn’t take long. She pulled out a stash of the red-metal shells, each one unmistakably designed to conceal a dark secret. Holding one up, she turned it over in her fingers, studying it with a piercing gaze.

“You have a little caffeine in the morning, I have a little morphine. So what?” Lee’s voice was flippant, the tone almost dismissive as he leaned casually against the wall.

Her lips curled into a humorless smirk. “And here you’ve got two mornings every day. Wow, were you born lucky?”

“It’s not a problem unless you make it one,” he shot back, narrowing his eyes as the tension simmered between them.

Her expression darkened, and her voice snapped out, like a whip cracking through the air. “You made it a problem when you let Shields die like that. When you had enough drugs in your stash to knock out a fucking mule team.”

Lee straightened, his casual facade slipping away, replaced by a defensive edge. “Shields was already dead,” he snapped, his tone sharper now. “His brain just hadn’t caught up to it yet.”

The words hit her like a slap. Y/N froze, her grip tightening on the shell in her hand, the metal pressing into her skin as her knuckles whitened. “Anything else we should know about you, Lee? Christ, here I am letting you play games with our lives when—”

Before she could finish, he moved, his hands grabbing hers with a firm, unyielding grip. He pulled her hands to his back, forcing her fingers against the jagged, uneven scar that stretched beside his spine.

“My first run-in with Jungkook,” Lee said quietly, his voice a low growl. “Went for the sweet spot and missed. They had to leave a piece of the shiv in there. Couldn’t risk taking it out without paralyzing me. I can feel it sometimes, pressing against the cord.” He released her hands, stepping back with a hardness in his gaze that matched the stone-like resolve in his posture. “So maybe the care and feeding of my nerve endings is my business.”

Y/N’s hand hovered in mid-air for a moment, then dropped to her side. Her gaze remained fixed on him, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. “You could’ve helped.”

The accusation hung heavy between them, sharper than any blade.

“And you didn’t.”

Outside, a voice broke the charged silence, calling urgently, “Captain! Captain!”

Lee’s lips curled into a faint, bitter smirk, and his voice dropped low, mocking. “Yeah, well,” he said, “look to thine own ass first. Right, Captain?”

The words stung more than she wanted to admit, the bitterness cutting deep. But Y/N didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked out, her steps quick and purposeful, leaving the weight of their conversation to linger in the cabin behind her.

Behind her, Lee leaned back against the wall, watching her retreating form with a hard expression. The smirk faded, leaving something heavier in its place. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. The ampule was empty now, the drug’s effects wearing off, but the weight of what had just been said hung in the air, heavier than any substance he’d ever injected.

There was more to the story, more that he hadn’t shared. A deal made before takeoff, a decision that had led them off course, straight into the hands of their attackers. The memory of the deal he had struck with Shields, taking a back road to move Jungkook under cover of darkness, still tasted bitter in his mouth. They hadn’t been hit by accident. They’d been led there.

Lee had kept that part to himself. But maybe it was time to admit it. He wasn’t sure if Y/N was ready for the truth. But the way she’d looked at him—cold and accusatory—suggested she might already have figured it out. Still, the thought of telling her made his stomach tighten. The truth was a dangerous thing, and some pieces were better left buried.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Outside, the group stood scattered across the clearing, their faces tilted upward, eyes wide, mouths slightly open in silent awe. The air around them felt thick, charged with an almost unnatural stillness. The faint rustle of the wind seemed to pause, holding its breath, as if reluctant to disturb the moment. The universe, it seemed, had gone quiet—waiting.

“What do my eyes see?” Peter’s voice trembled, fragile and filled with wonder, as though afraid to break the spell that had fallen over them.

“It’s starting,” Y/N replied softly, her words barely more than a breath, the reality of the moment sinking into her bones.

Above them, an ethereal arch of light began to stretch across the twilight sky. It shimmered, ghostly and delicate, like a phantom river gliding across the heavens. It started as a mere glimmer on the distant horizon, but even as they watched, it grew, expanding outward with deliberate grace. The light painted the two suns in soft shades of lavender and gold, casting a surreal glow that seemed to fight against the encroaching darkness creeping from the opposite side of the horizon. The juxtaposition of light and shadow created an almost sacred atmosphere, as though the heavens themselves were about to reveal their secrets.

The group stood frozen, entranced, their minds suspended in the beauty of it all. It was as if time itself had taken a breath and held it, letting the moment linger. But then, as if on cue, Bindi’s voice sliced through the trance, cutting through the reverence like a knife.

“If we need anything from the crash site,” she said, her tone brisk and unyielding, “I suggest we move. That sand-cat’s solar.”

Her words ignited a spark of urgency in the group. The serene silence that had enveloped the settlement shattered, replaced by a rush of movement and purpose. People scrambled to grab supplies—water containers, solar lanterns, climbing gear, weapons. There was no time for hesitation now.

Bindi was already at the sand-cat, her movements precise and practiced as she cranked the engine to life. The vehicle roared to life, its solar panels straining to catch the last rays of the fading light. “Now or never, folks!” she barked, her voice carrying above the sudden flurry of activity as the others piled aboard, their hands eager and hearts racing.

“Let’s get those cells!” Y/N shouted, her voice sharp, commanding, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

The sand-cat lurched forward, kicking up a cloud of dust as it sped toward the wreck site. Jungkook leapt onto the rear bed with ease, his body moving with an effortless grace that made the jump seem like child’s play. Peter and Leo sprinted after the vehicle, boots pounding against the packed dirt. They reached the back just as the sand-cat hit a bump, hauling themselves aboard with a mix of desperation and adrenaline.

“We stay together!” Bindi called, her voice like iron, grounding them in the midst of the rush.

Lee emerged from the settlement’s private quarters, a shotgun slung over his shoulder and a pouch of red-metal shells strapped to his hip. His boots pounded against the ground as he sprinted toward the departing vehicle. The sand-cat veered past the settlement’s incinerator, and Jungkook reached out, his smirk sly and confident, hauling Lee aboard with a single, fluid motion.

“Don’t wanna miss this,” Jungkook said, his teasing tone laced with something darker, something that lingered beneath the surface.

Lee shot him a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable, but he said nothing. He gripped the railing as the sand-cat accelerated, the wind whipping around them.

“Look!” Leo cried, his voice breaking with awe.

The sand-cat crested a ridge, and the horizon stretched wide before them. A massive planet began to rise, its curvature vast and unimaginable. Its surface shimmered with swirling hues of green and silver, like the very earth itself was alive. The planet’s colossal rings spread across the sky, glowing with an eerie luminescence, their edges jagged with the glittering remnants of ancient collisions. The sheer scale of it all—this cosmic behemoth—was enough to make the two suns below seem small and insignificant, their light swallowed by the immensity of the rising planet. Its presence cast a heavy shadow over the land, threatening to swallow them whole.

The sand-cat plunged into a canyon, the roar of its engine reverberating off the jagged walls. The bones of a massive creature littered the path, ribcages arching overhead like grotesque monuments to a long-dead past. The roll cage scraped against them with an ear-splitting screech as they barreled through, the noise amplified by the canyon walls.

The wrecked ship came into view, its once-proud hull now a crumpled husk against the canyon floor. The group sprang into action as the sand-cat skidded to a halt, the urgency of their mission pushing them forward. Bindi barked orders, her voice clear and firm, cutting through the growing darkness around them.

Peter paused for a moment, his feet rooted to the ground as he turned back toward the sky. The planet loomed higher now, its rings casting shifting shadows across the desert floor. The sheer scale of it all was staggering, its presence so overwhelming that it seemed to consume the entire world. The planet wasn’t just rising—it was swallowing the sky, the suns, and perhaps them along with it.

“Peter, move!” Y/N’s voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him out of his daze.

With a final, reluctant glance at the celestial titan above, Peter turned and joined the others. His pulse raced, and as he caught up with the group, he could feel the weight of what was coming. Above them, the arch of light began to ripple, as if alive, its movement almost sentient. The shadows deepened around them, and the air grew thick with the anticipation of something monumental on the horizon.

Whatever was coming next, they had precious little time to prepare.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Inside the battery bay, the air was thick with the sharp tang of ozone, a heavy scent of burnt metal mingling with the faint, acrid smell of aging wiring. Dim emergency lights flickered weakly, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch across the cramped space. Towering rows of depleted power cells loomed in silence, their massive forms resembling sentinels guarding a forgotten realm. The room was cold, the only sound the soft hum of the failing lights and the metallic scrape of Lee's boots as he worked.

Lee gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched against the weight of the first power cell. It resisted him, the massive cylinder a stubborn and unwieldy thing. Age and neglect had conspired against him, its weight pulling him off balance with each strained tug. His muscles screamed as he wrestled it free from its docking cradle, finally yanking it loose with a forceful jerk. The sudden shift nearly sent him tumbling backward, but he regained his footing, dragging the cumbersome unit across the deck. His boots scraped against the scuffed metal floor, the sound an irritating reminder of just how much work was left to do.

Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, running down his face and disappearing into the collar of his worn jumpsuit. His arms trembled with the effort, and his breath came in short, ragged bursts, but he pressed on. There was no time to waste. Each step was a battle, but he couldn’t afford to stop. Not now.

Behind him, a sound broke through his concentration—confident footsteps. Lee glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see Jungkook effortlessly hoist a second power cell onto his shoulder, his movements smooth and practiced. The younger man carried it like a feather, his lithe frame betraying the surprising strength that lay beneath. To Lee, it seemed almost like mockery, the ease with which Jungkook handled the massive weight. The cell, which was easily a hundred pounds, rested against Jungkook’s shoulder like a sack of grain, the young man’s posture impeccable, like a man who’d done this a thousand times before.

As Jungkook passed, he flashed a grin that was all teeth, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Try to keep up, old man," he teased, the words light, but the challenge hanging in the air. His tone was mocking, and beneath the humor, there was something sharp—something dare Lee to respond.

Lee’s scowl deepened, the jab landing harder than he wanted to admit. He adjusted his grip on the cumbersome power cell, its bulk weighing him down with each dragging step. The scrape of metal on metal echoed in his ears as he made his way toward the loading ramp, his body aching from the strain. Jungkook’s effortless pace only fueled the fire in his chest. He wasn’t going to be outdone, not by a cocky kid.

Ahead, Jungkook moved with ease, his steps light as he descended the ramp, the power cell balanced with casual precision on his shoulder. He hopped the last step, landing with a controlled bounce before setting the cell down onto the sand-cat with a resounding thud. He glanced back at Lee, one eyebrow raised, a silent dare in his expression.

“Need a hand?” Jungkook’s voice was laced with mock sincerity, his lips curling in that infuriating smile.

“Don’t push your luck,” Lee growled, teeth gritted as he made his way up the ramp, finally catching up. His arms burned from the strain, but he refused to stop. Not with the eclipse looming, not with everything on the line.

Bindi’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding, as she expertly maneuvered the sand-cat into position. The vehicle’s treads kicked up plumes of dust as it came to a halt, the grinding sound of metal on rock a steady reminder of their dwindling time. She parked just far enough to give the team room to work, the scrap-metal sled trailing behind, its battered frame a makeshift lifeline. The Chrislams were already at work, their hands moving in practiced synchrony as they lashed the sled securely to the sand-cat’s rear with frayed ropes and makeshift clamps. Every motion was swift, efficient, driven by necessity—and the growing urgency in their eyes.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. With a grunt, he hoisted the power cell from his shoulder and dropped it onto the sled with a resounding clang. The metal groaned beneath the weight, but it held firm. Lee wasn’t far behind, dragging his own cell with grim determination etched into every line of his face. He shoved it into place beside Jungkook’s, their movements synchronized by the same unspoken understanding: this was a race against time, against the impending darkness, and against each other.

Overhead, the yellow sun began to dim, its light swallowed by the planet’s encroaching rings. The sky shifted into a strange, eerie twilight, casting long, distorted shadows across the crash site. The last remnants of daylight seemed to be fading into something far darker, the air growing thicker, heavier. The sudden gloom was accompanied by a faint, high-pitched whine—a sound that crawled under the skin and made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. It started low but steadily grew louder, a vibration that seemed to pulse in the air itself, like a warning from something ancient and waiting.

“Keep moving! Don’t stop!” Y/N’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent, cutting through the tension. Fear laced her words, but there was something about her command that only made her more forceful, more determined.

Most of the team obeyed without question, their hands moving faster, breaths coming in short, panicked bursts. But Peter, ever the curious one, faltered. His gaze drifted to the jagged spires rising in the distance. He squinted, his curiosity sparking even in the midst of the growing chaos. He didn’t notice the way his body stiffened, the hairs on his arms rising as the air seemed to pulse with something alive.

“Peter, now is not the time!” Bindi’s voice was a whip-crack of authority, cutting through the tension like a blade.

The yellow sun was gone, swallowed entirely by the planet’s vast rings. Its twin—the red sun—followed moments later, plunging the world into an oppressive darkness that felt almost sentient, like it was pressing down on them, suffocating them. The whine crescendoed into a keening wail, a sound that rattled the bones and sent panic rippling through the group. And then, like some sleeping giant disturbed, the spires began to stir.

Chapter 4: Not For Me

At first, it looked like smoke, curling up from the jagged hills, coiling in long tendrils that slithered through the night. It moved strangely, as if it had a will of its own, twisting unnaturally against the wind. The survivors stood in uneasy silence, their breath held tight in their throats, until realization hit them all at once. This was not smoke. It was something else entirely.

The sound that followed was unlike anything they had ever heard—an eerie symphony of clicks, shrieks, and chittering wails that slashed through the air like a serrated blade. Then came the wings. Sharp, sleek, cutting through the encroaching dark with a deadly precision. They poured from the craggy spires in relentless waves, an unholy swarm shrieking with the sheer exhilaration of nightfall. The sky churned as they spread out, blotting out what little light remained, turning the world into a writhing, living storm.

Lee’s voice broke through the rising panic, hoarse and disbelieving. “Jesus… how many of them can there be?”

More poured forth, a tide of grotesque bodies, their numbers beyond comprehension. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if the creatures might pass them by, seeking prey elsewhere, but the illusion shattered in an instant. As if guided by some unseen intelligence, a portion of the swarm peeled away, shifting course, heading straight for them.

Peter’s voice wavered, his panic barely contained. “Uh… just a thought, but maybe we should flee?”

Y/N’s voice cut through the tension, sharp, commanding. “Cargo hold! Everyone, move! Now!”

Her words ignited action. The ground trembled under their pounding footsteps as they sprinted toward the hold, the swarm closing in behind them. Y/N reached it first, spinning just inside the hatch, her heart lurching when she saw Jungkook and Bindi still outside, running full tilt toward safety. Against the backdrop of the roiling sky, they were little more than silhouettes, illuminated by the sickly glow of the creatures’ bioluminescent wings.

Then, the swarm descended.

It was a storm of wings and talons, a living maelstrom slicing through the air with horrifying speed. The shrieking mass swept over them like a black tide, the force of it nearly knocking them from their feet. Jungkook and Bindi hit the ground in unison, flattening themselves against the earth as the creatures surged overhead, their razor-edged wings slicing the air just inches above them.

Bindi lay frozen, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, her fingers clawing into the dirt as if trying to anchor herself against the chaos. Jungkook, in contrast, was eerily still. His face was unreadable as he watched the creatures swirl above them, something akin to fascination gleaming in his dark eyes. Slowly, he lifted a crude bone-shiv, holding it aloft like an offering. Then, with the detached curiosity of a scientist, he thrust it into the heart of the storm.

The blade vanished in an instant, shredded into nothingness by the relentless flurry of wings. Jungkook tilted his head slightly, as if calculating the swarm’s efficiency, as if filing away every piece of information with eerie precision.

“Bindi!” Leo’s voice rang out from the cargo hold, frantic. “Stay down! Don’t move!”

Bindi’s gaze snapped toward the sound, a flicker of hope breaking through her terror. She began to crawl, inching forward, her elbows digging into the dirt. Every movement felt like an eternity, the world narrowing to the frantic pounding of her heart. The swarm churned above, shrieking and shifting, and for a moment, it seemed as though she might make it.

Then, the hatchlings turned.

With horrifying speed, the swarm adjusted course, locking onto her like a pack of starving wolves. The noise rose into a deafening crescendo, a thousand clicking jaws converging all at once.

“No.” Y/N’s voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with dread. “No, no, no, no—”

The creatures struck like a living flood. One second, Bindi was crawling toward salvation; the next, she was engulfed. Her scream barely made it past her lips before it was swallowed by the storm. The hatchlings twisted around her, a vortex of writhing bodies lifting her into the air. For a split second, they could still see her, limbs flailing, before she was pulled higher, vanishing into the swirling mass above.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Inside the cargo hold, the survivors stood frozen, their faces pale, their breath caught in their throats. They had seen it. They had watched as she was taken, as if the night itself had devoured her. The creatures carried her upward, over the horizon, until there was nothing left but the empty void.

Jungkook remained where he was, motionless amid the settling dust. His gaze never left the darkened sky, tracking the last remnants of the swarm as they disappeared. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet. He dusted the dirt from his hands, his movements methodical, unhurried. He turned toward the cargo hold, walking with deliberate steps, as if nothing had changed.

Inside, the others still hadn’t moved. Fear clung to them, thick as smoke, suffocating. Y/N opened her mouth, her mind scrambling for something—anything—to say, when a new sound began to rise.

Click. Click. Click.

At first, it was faint, distant, like stones tapping together. But it grew louder, sharper, echoing through the heavy air. The space around them seemed to shift, the very atmosphere thickening with something unseen, something waiting.

Y/N felt it then. A cold knot tightening in her gut. She knew that sound.

Jungkook…” Her voice was barely a whisper, a tremor of fear lacing her words. “What’s happening?”

Jungkook paused just outside the cargo hold, his gaze fixed on the crumbling spires in the distance. The faint light reflected off his goggles as he pulled them off, revealing eyes that gleamed unnervingly in the dim glow. His expression was unreadable, his attention locked on the distant, dying spires, as if the answers were written in the ruins.

The hills were collapsing, their jagged peaks groaning under the weight of their own destruction. The ground trembled, as if the very earth itself was giving way. From the crumbling cliffs, massive shapes began to emerge, each one deliberate and purposeful. Unlike the hatchlings that had surged forth with chaotic energy, these creatures moved with cold calculation. Their hammer-shaped heads swayed as they stepped into the open, each movement slow but precise, every click of their joints sharp and rhythmic, reverberating against the surrounding cliffs. Their bodies were unnervingly mammalian, slick, sinewy flesh that gleamed faintly under the dim light, an unsettling reminder that something monstrous had been waiting just beneath the surface.

“What is it? What do you see?” Y/N’s voice trembled, a raw edge creeping in as she fought to contain her rising panic.

Jungkook’s voice broke through the heavy silence, his tone low, almost amused. “The grown-ups,” he murmured, a dark smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Told you... ain’t me you gotta worry about.”

Above them, the twin suns were eclipsed by the planet’s rim, plunging the world into an unnatural darkness. The stars were hidden, swallowed by a storm of predators that surged forth from the shattered hills. The atmosphere felt thick, oppressive, as if the very air was charged with impending doom.

Inside the cargo hold, Y/N slammed her hand against the control panel. The thick, vault-like doors hissed and groaned as they slid shut, sealing the survivors inside. The sound of the lock engaging echoed in the chamber, sharp and final.

The space inside the hold was unbearably small, the air heavy with tension and fear. Bodies crowded the room, their presence amplifying every creak and groan of the metal hull. Flashlights flickered to life, casting long, jittery shadows on the walls. Every scrape of metal, every distant noise felt amplified, as though the creatures outside were testing the strength of their temporary sanctuary.

Y/N leaned against the cold metal wall, her heart hammering as she tried to make sense of the chaos that had unfolded so suddenly. Around her, the others stood motionless, their faces pale, drawn, and tight with fear. Each person was lost in their own private terror, the silence between them thickening with every passing second.

But even in the stillness, the clicking persisted, growing louder, closer. It was relentless, a sound that crawled under their skin, twisting the air with its chilling rhythm.

Leo sat hunched against the cold wall, his knees pulled to his chest, his voice barely audible. “What if... what if she’s still out there? Still alive?” His eyes darted from one face to the next, searching for a glimmer of hope in their expressions.

Lee, leaning casually against the opposite wall, snorted dryly, a humorless sound that cut through the tension like a blade. His voice was colder than the night pressing against the hull. “Look, I don’t wanna be the guy to burst your bubble, but you remember that boneyard we passed? These might be the charming assholes that wiped out every other living thing on this rock. So unless Bindi’s got superpowers, her knocking on that door anytime soon? That’s about zero squared, buddy.”

Y/N swallowed hard, the memory of the skeletal remains flashing in her mind. She closed her eyes against it, but it wouldn’t go away. “I saw the cut marks on the bones,” she said quietly. “That wasn’t natural. Something butchered them.”

“Quiet, please,” Namjoon’s voice interrupted, cutting through the rising tension. He held up a hand, pressing his ear against the thick cargo door, his face drawn tight with concentration. His senses were tuned to the smallest of details, every sound scrutinized for meaning.

The others fell silent, breaths shallow and synchronized, as they strained to hear past the metal barrier. The clicking continued, a distant storm of noise that swept past outside, growing louder, then fading away again into the night.

Leo’s voice broke the silence, laced with fear. “What do they even do that for? Why do they make that sound?”

Namjoon’s brow furrowed, his calm voice betraying a quiet tension. “It may be the way they see... using sound to create a picture of the world.”

“Echo-location,” Y/N murmured, the realization clicking into place. “Like bats. That’s what it is.”

Before anyone could respond, a sharp new clicking sound rang out from behind them. Instantly, their flashlights whipped around, beams of light cutting through the oppressive darkness. The hold seemed to expand, its shadows deepening, stretching outward as if the space itself was becoming more alive.

“Where’s it coming from?” Leo’s voice quivered, his fear seeping into every word.

The lights landed on the darkened gap of an open container halfway down the long, tunnel-like hold. The door swung slightly, nudged by an unseen force.

“How the hell could one of them get in here?” someone muttered, their voice barely above a breath.

Y/N’s voice was sharp, urgent. “Breach in the hull,” she said quickly. “Or maybe the vents. I don’t know.”

The group turned, eyes locking onto Lee, whose expression had soured. He sighed heavily, the weight of their expectations settling on him as they all turned their gaze toward him.

“Goddammit,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for his shotgun. “I’d rather piss glass.”

Jungkook, leaning casually against the wall, smirked faintly. “You’ve got the big gauge, old man. Time to earn your keep.”

Lee shot him a venomous glare, his grip tightening around the shotgun. “Wanna rag your fat mouth a little louder, golden boy? Or you wanna take point?”

The clicking grew louder, now joined by a sharp crash from deeper in the hold. Something heavy had toppled, the sound reverberating off the walls, sending a chill down their spines.

“Big beads,” Jungkook quipped, his smirk widening as the tension mounted.

Lee shook his head, sucking on his breather before stepping forward. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath.

He moved cautiously toward the open container, shotgun raised, his flashlight cutting a narrow beam through the dark. The clicking echoed all around them, distorted and impossible to pinpoint, as though it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The air in the hold was thick with the weight of it, the darkness pressing closer with every step.

When Lee reached the container, he paused, his breath shallow, and then fired a blind shot into the shadows. The deafening boom of the shotgun echoed through the cramped space, a violent punctuation to the tension that had been mounting since the first hint of danger. The sharp, pained squeal that followed was short-lived, fading quickly into the silence, leaving behind an eerie stillness.

Easing around the edge of the container, Lee aimed his flashlight inside, the beam slicing through the dark. It landed on a cluster of hatchlings—tiny, malformed bodies, their twitching limbs tangled in pulpy, bloodied heaps. He exhaled slowly, the tension that had been coiled tight in his shoulders easing as he took in the scene.

“Okay,” he called back to the others, his voice steady now. “We’re okay. Just some small ones that must’ve snuck in. Nothing to—”

He never finished the sentence.

From the darkness, something swung out like a scythe. The force of it struck Lee’s shotgun with brutal precision, sending it clattering to the floor with a deafening clang. The weapon discharged, its blast ricocheting off the ceiling in a brief, blinding flash. In that instant, Lee saw it—it.

An adult predator loomed in the shadows, its massive, hammer-like head tilting toward him. The clicking echoed through the tight space, sharp and unsettling, as the creature remained unnervingly still, yet coiled with latent energy, like a spring about to snap. Its skin gleamed sickeningly in the dim light, a sinewy texture that seemed to absorb the glow, swallowing any trace of warmth.

“Shit,” Lee whispered, his voice barely audible, more a prayer than a statement.

Peter shoved past him, face pale, sweat glistening on his brow as his hand flew to the door lever. His voice cracked with panic. “Not staying in here another second—”

Y/N lunged forward, grabbing his arm with a desperate grip, her nails digging into his sleeve. “Christ, Peter, you don’t know what’s out there!” Her voice was sharp, but there was a tremor beneath the words, a raw edge of fear that betrayed her calm façade.

“I know what’s in here!” Peter snapped back, his eyes darting around the darkened space, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. “I know what’s in here, and I’m not waiting for it to tear me apart.”

Namjoon stepped forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. His voice cut through the rising panic, calm yet urgent. “Everybody, this way. We’ll be safer deeper in. Hurry, please...” His words were a lifeline, a thread of reason in the madness that threatened to swallow them all.

The air inside the container felt suffocating, thick with the sour tang of sweat and the mechanical hiss of breathers struggling to pull in precious oxygen. No one dared speak as they followed Namjoon, their footsteps hurried and uneven, the metal floor groaning under their collective weight.

Then the sound began—a faint scratching at first, distant and almost imperceptible, like fingernails dragging across steel. But it grew steadily louder, a slow, deliberate scraping that clawed its way through the silence, twisting the air, wrapping around their nerves like a vice.

Lee muttered a curse under his breath, fumbling for the cutting torch strapped to his belt. His hands were slick with sweat, trembling as he finally sparked it to life. The burst of orange light filled the container, illuminating the faces of the survivors, pale and drawn, the shadows dancing wildly on the walls. He adjusted the gas, coaxing the flame to burn brighter, casting an eerie glow across the space.

“Stay back,” he said, his voice tight with tension, as he moved toward the far wall. The glow from the torch cast a sickly halo around the door, pulling every eye toward it, a silent warning of the danger that was closing in.

The scratching escalated into something heavier, more deliberate. Scythe-like claws scraped and probed at the door’s joints, testing its strength, forcing the metal to groan under the pressure. The air thickened with the sound, the reality of the threat inching closer with every scraping, every moment of silence that followed.

Then came the blows. Heavy, calculated strikes that reverberated through the container, sending a shockwave of terror through the survivors. Each strike seemed designed to break them, to force them back into the corner where they had nowhere left to go. The noise was overwhelming, each blow making the metal shudder, forcing them to shrink away.

Jungkook’s voice cut through the tense silence, sharp and irritated. “Can you do something else with that?” He gestured to the cutting torch. “Besides holding it in my fucking face?”

Lee shot him a glare, but didn’t answer. Instead, he turned, focusing once again on the wall in front of him, the torch biting into the metal with a steady, rhythmic crackling. Each spark was like the ticking of a grim countdown.

The scratching outside turned to tearing, a sound of steel being ripped apart, and the blows came faster now—more insistent, more brutal. Each strike shook the container like a drum, and the survivors were pushed further into the corner, their minds racing for any possible escape.

Y/N’s voice was a low, trembling whisper. “Hurry, Lee. Please.”

Lee didn’t respond. His focus was absolute, his eyes locked on the glowing line he was carving into the wall. Behind him, the door groaned again, the metal bowing inward under the relentless assault, bending toward them like an inevitable, crushing force.

Finally, the makeshift escape hatch was open, and Leo scrambled through first, his movements frantic, uncoordinated as he darted for freedom. “Come on!” he hissed, waving his hand wildly for the others to follow.

Behind them, the door gave way. The sound of metal shredding filled the air, a deafening, grinding scream that drowned out every other noise.

The predators came through fast—massive, sleek creatures with hammer-shaped heads and serrated claws, moving with terrifying precision. Their clicking filled the air, a chorus of broken gears grinding together, echoing off the metal walls as they poured into the space. They moved with an unnerving fluidity, sweeping through the container like hunters unleashed. Their echo-location guided them, and their movements were as deliberate as they were deadly, each step an instinctive calculation.

“Go, go, go!” Y/N shouted, her voice raw with urgency as she shoved Peter toward the hole.

The survivors scrambled through the escape hatch, their breaths ragged, hearts pounding. On the other side, Lee wasted no time. He slammed his torch against the edges of the opening, welding the thin sheet of metal shut behind them. The predators thudded against the barrier almost immediately, their claws scraping against the fresh welds with bone-chilling speed.

“Move!” Namjoon barked, his voice slicing through the chaos, compelling them forward.

They sprinted through the adjoining container, but the darkness that met them was suffocating, and the relentless clicking followed them like a shadow. It was a haunting reminder that they weren’t out of danger yet. Lee lit the torch again, its dim glow barely cutting through the thick blackness. He began carving another escape route, each movement swift, but steady. Meanwhile, Y/N and Peter worked feverishly to barricade the entrance, using whatever they could find—crates, loose pipes, their own bodies pressed against the door. But it was never enough.

The predators were relentless. They tore through each makeshift barrier with terrifying speed, each new attack a savage reminder of the creatures’ lethal precision. Every time the survivors scrambled into the next container, the beasts were already at their heels, claws raking through the walls, the clicking growing louder, more frenzied.

In the fifth container, Y/N and Peter hurled their bodies against the barricade, sweat streaming down their faces as they pushed crates, pipes, and loose cargo into place. The screeches and tearing sounds from the predators beyond grew louder, closer, hammering against their fraying nerves. Jungkook stood beside them, bracing his hands against the wall, adding his strength to the effort. But then, he froze.

Something caught his eye—marks on the cargo. At first, they seemed like scratches or grooves, but they were too deliberate, too clean. They were precise cuts, like those made by a predator’s blade. His gaze tracked the marks, following them down to the floor, where faint, glistening smears trailed into the darker recesses of the container.

Jungkook didn’t say a word. Quiet as a shadow, he slipped away from the group, his footsteps muffled against the cold metal floor.

Peter turned his head, his voice trembling with rising panic. “Hello? Jungkook? Where the hell are you going?”

But Jungkook didn’t answer. He moved toward the far end of the container, where the dim glow of Lee’s cutting torch didn’t reach. His boots squelched against something wet, and his pace slowed. He slipped off his goggles, squinting into the deep shadows.

The scene that emerged in the faint light made him stop. Dead hatchlings littered the floor, their twisted bodies scattered like discarded toys. Blood and viscera smeared the metal, the sharp coppery tang filling the air.

Jungkook felt it before he saw it. A ripple in the air, a sense of something alive—watching.

There, perched atop a stack of cargo, was an adolescent predator. Its sinewy body moved with unnerving grace as it tore into the carcass of a hatchling. The creature’s head was crowned with a heavy, bone-like blade that gleamed faintly in the low light. It paused mid-feed, clicking softly as it tilted its head, its scythe-like forelimbs sweeping the air, feeling for vibrations, searching for prey.

Behind him, the group forced open another escape hatch. Leo scrambled through first, followed by Y/N and Lee. Namjoon and Kai lingered, their faces tense as they glanced back toward the darkened depths of the container.

“Where’s Jungkook?” Namjoon’s voice was hushed, tight with concern.

The answer came too late.

Kai turned the corner, his steps faltering as his gaze snapped upward. The adolescent predator loomed above him, its blade descending like a guillotine.

“Don’t. Move.”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the moment, calm and commanding. He emerged from the shadows, every muscle taut, coiled with tension. His gaze locked onto the predator, steady and unblinking.

Kai froze. The creature’s blade grazed his cheek, a shallow cut that welled with blood. The predator clicked, testing, its movements almost clinical, surgical.

Then, another shape loomed behind the first. A second predator, larger, its blade gleaming in the low light as it tested the air.

From the other end of the container, Y/N’s voice echoed, sharp and urgent. “Jungkook? Namjoon? What’s going on?”

Kai’s breath hitched, his eyes darting between the creatures and the open hatch. Panic surged through him, a cold wave of terror. Without thinking, he bolted.

“No—” Jungkook’s warning came too late.

The predators moved as one, a blur of lethal grace. Their blades flashed in the dark, and Kai’s scream tore through the container, high and sharp, before it was abruptly silenced.

Jungkook’s body snapped into motion. He ducked behind a stack of cargo, moving with the predator’s instinct, every step measured and calculated. He darted for the open hatch just as Y/N’s flashlight beam sliced through the darkness.

The light hit him square in the face, and he stumbled, his hand flying up instinctively to shield his eyes. “Turn that off!” he barked.

But the beam moved past him, landing on the predator that had been closing in on his heels. The creature recoiled instantly, letting out a guttural howl. It thrashed wildly, its movements erratic, disoriented, as though the light had burned it.

Y/N froze, her hand trembling as the flashlight shook in her grip. Her mind raced. Did… did that just stop it?

The silence shattered with the deafening blast of Lee’s shotgun, the echo reverberating through the metal walls. He fired blindly into the dark, his face locked in a rictus of adrenaline and fear.

“Stop it! Stop it, STOP IT!” Y/N screamed, shoving Lee hard enough to make him stumble.

“It’s okay,” Lee muttered, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands trembling as he barely kept a grip on the shotgun. “I killed it.”

Disbelief rippled through the group. Before anyone could speak, a sickening thud resonated through the space. A carcass slammed to the floor, twitching weakly, steam rising from the still-warm body.

“Christ,” Peter whispered, his voice barely audible. “He did kill one.”

Y/N swept her flashlight over the creature’s grotesque form. Its charred, sinewy flesh seemed to shrink and crackle under the beam, sizzling as though doused in acid.

“There,” Y/N said quietly, the weight of realization settling in her voice, heavy and unyielding.

Peter leaned closer, his face twisting into an expression that was part disgust, part curiosity. “It’s like the light is scalding it.”

“It hurts them,” Y/N replied, her voice sharpening, taking on an edge of cold certainty. “Light actually hurts them.”

From somewhere in the oppressive shadows beyond the container, the guttural sounds of predators squabbling over a fresh kill reached their ears. The noises were wet, feral, and horribly familiar, a sound they all knew too well.

Namjoon’s face tightened, grief flickering across his usually composed features. He looked at Jungkook, his voice a near whisper. “Is that... Kai?”

Jungkook nodded once, grim and silent, his eyes dark with unspoken thoughts.

The air inside the container grew heavier, thick with the weight of tension that settled in their chests like stones. The cargo piled against the doors and walls—a makeshift barricade no one truly believed would hold for long—felt as fragile as the fleeting hope that had once driven them. Y/N’s handlight was their only source of illumination, its faint glow a fragile lifeline in the vast, suffocating darkness pressing in from every side.

Leo sat huddled against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Normally sharp-tongued and defiant, she looked like a frightened child now, her wide eyes darting nervously to every shifting shadow. Y/N glanced at her, a pang of something deep and bitter twisting in her chest, but she forced herself to focus. Focus on survival.

Y/N’s voice cut through the dark, steady and firm. “Let’s take stock. One cutting torch, one handlight here. Two more flashlights in the cabin, and maybe two after that.”

Peter’s voice, lighter than the situation warranted, held a flicker of tension. “Spirits. Anything over forty-five proof burns well.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “How many bottles?”

Peter shrugged, a ghost of a grin playing at his lips. “Ten? Give or take.”

“What about the umbrellas?” Y/N’s mind was moving at breakneck speed. “The ones that mist. Could they burn?”

Peter raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Possibly. If you’ve got a receipt and some kerosene handy.”

“Good,” Y/N nodded, her mind already assembling a plan. “Maybe we’ll have enough light to get through this.”

“Enough for what?” Lee’s voice cut in, sharp with skepticism.

“To get the cells back to the skiff,” Y/N answered evenly, her gaze unwavering, daring him to argue.

Lee let out a humorless laugh, leaning back against the wall. “Oh, lady,” he said, voice thick with disbelief. “If you’re in your right mind, I pray you go insane.”

Y/N ignored him, focusing on the group. “We stick to the plan. If we can get four cells back to the skiff, we’re off this rock.”

Peter snorted, shaking his head. “Hate to ruin your beautiful theory with an ugly fact, but that sand-cat won’t run at night.”

“Then we carry the cells,” Y/N’s voice was cold, final. “Drag them. Whatever it takes.”

The floor light flickered, its glow dimming with every passing moment. Y/N glanced at it, jaw tightening, willing it to hold.

“You mean… tonight?” Leo’s voice trembled, fear threading through her words. “With all those things still out there?”

Peter feigned mock cheerfulness, though his voice cracked slightly. “Oh, absolutely. Sounds like a hoot.”

“How long can this last?” Lee’s voice cut through the banter, sharper now, the skepticism replaced with grim reality. “A few minutes? A couple of hours?”

Namjoon spoke softly, reluctant, as if the words carried weight. “The planets are locked together in orbit. There will be lasting darkness.”

Lee’s face twisted in frustration. “The suns have to come back eventually. If these things are scared of light, we wait them out.”

“I’m sure that’s what someone else said. Locked inside that coring room.” Y/N shook her head, her voice like steel. “It’ll last three days. That’s how long it lasted when the other crew was here.”

The implication landed like a hammer, the coring room now a mass grave. The weight of it settled over them all.

Lee exhaled sharply, his voice softer now, almost reasonable. “Look, we have to think about everyone. Especially the kid. How scared is she gonna be out there?”

Y/N’s eyes snapped to him, ice-cold. “Don’t you dare use her as a smokescreen for your own fear.”

Lee straightened, eyes hard, a flash of anger sparking in his gaze. “Hey, why don’t you rag your hole for two seconds and let someone else come up with a plan that doesn’t involve mass suicide?”

A taut silence passed before Y/N’s voice cut through it, calm and deadly, like a blade. “How much do you weigh, Lee?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What the hell does that matter?”

“How much?” Y/N pressed, unwavering.

“Seventy-nine kilos,” he snapped.

Y/N’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because you’re seventy-nine kilos of gutless white meat. That’s why you can’t come up with a better plan.”

Lee lunged at her, fury distorting his features, but Jungkook moved between them with practiced ease. The barrel of Lee’s shotgun bumped lightly under Jungkook’s chin, the air between them humming with tension.

The dim light above cast restless shadows, the space between them vibrating with unspoken animosity.

“Think about that reward, Lee,” Jungkook’s voice was low, almost playful, but the edge in his tone was undeniable.

Lee didn’t flinch. His jaw clenched. “I’m willing to take a cut in pay.”

Jungkook’s smile widened, humorless. “How about a cut in your gut?”

He stepped closer, smooth, predatory, a shiv gleaming faintly in his hand. Small, wickedly sharp, poised with deadly precision, inches from Lee’s stomach.

“Oh, Trash Baby,” Lee growled, his voice carrying a promise of retribution. “You’re gonna regret this.”

The group stiffened, the already suffocating atmosphere thickening, the weight of their situation pressing down like a vice.

“Please,” Namjoon interjected, his voice soft yet firm, as he stepped forward with his hands raised in a calming gesture. He moved with quiet authority, his tone a thin thread of reason trying to weave its way through the tension that hung like a storm in the air. “This solves nothing. Please, both of you.”

For a moment, no one moved. The silence between them was thick, punctuated only by the faint hum of the flashlight and the distant clicking of predators moving through the dark, their movements just out of sight but always felt. It was a silence that pressed against their chests, making the air feel heavier, more oppressive.

It was Lee who relented first. His shoulders tensed as if ready to spring, his fury barely contained beneath the surface. He stepped back, the fire in his eyes not extinguished but held in check, a silent promise of retribution smoldering in the depths of his glare as he turned his attention away from Jungkook.

The light flickered again, a brief, fleeting stutter that caught everyone's attention. The shadows seemed to shift, drawing a little closer, as if daring to swallow the fragile haven the flashlight provided.

“They’re afraid of our light,” Y/N said softly, her voice breaking the silence with a quiet certainty. She crouched down near Leo, her tone calm and measured as she locked eyes with the young girl, who was trembling in the corner. “That means we don’t have to be so afraid of them.”

Leo nodded slowly, her gaze still wide with fear, her trembling hands betraying the unease that clung to her like a second skin.

Namjoon, ever the voice of reason, turned toward Y/N. His brow furrowed in concern, the lines of worry etched across his face. “And you’re certain you can find the way back?”

Y/N hesitated, the weight of his question pressing into her, making the confidence she'd been clinging to waver for the first time. Her eyes flickered briefly to Jungkook, who stood a few paces away, his posture relaxed despite the tension that was so thick in the air. He held the shiv loosely at his side, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light, his expression unreadable, a mask of cool indifference.

“No,” Y/N admitted, her voice steady despite the admission. “I’m not. But he can.”

All eyes turned to Jungkook.

He met their stares without flinching, his lips curling into the faintest of smirks, as if this were all just another game. The calmness in his demeanor was almost unsettling, a stark contrast to the chaos and fear that seemed to infect everyone else like a disease.

“You’re putting your faith in him?” Lee spat, his anger rising again, the edges of his words sharp like broken glass. “The guy who just pulled a blade on me?”

Jungkook tilted his head, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. His dark eyes narrowed just slightly, sizing up Lee with an effortless cool. “Would you rather wander around in the dark and hope for the best? Because you're welcome to try.”

Lee opened his mouth to retort, but Namjoon cut him off, raising a hand to silence the argument before it could flare into something worse.

“Enough,” Namjoon said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of authority. His gaze shifted to Jungkook, his expression unreadable, the tension in his shoulders settling into something closer to resolve. “Can you lead us back? Truly?”

Jungkook’s smirk faded, the playful mask slipping away, revealing something more serious behind his eyes. His shoulders squared slightly, and for a brief moment, the casualness of his demeanor cracked, replaced by a rare sincerity. “I can,” he said simply, his voice low but sure. “But it won’t be easy.”

“Nothing about this is easy,” Y/N said, her voice cutting through the moment like a knife. She stood, brushing dust from her hands, the gesture sharp and decisive. “But it’s a hell of a lot better than staying here and waiting to die.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the decision settling over them, thick and oppressive. There was no easy way out, no guarantee of survival, but at least this offered a chance.

“Fine,” Lee muttered finally, his voice bitter, the words dragging like nails against stone. “But if this goes sideways, don’t expect me to save your ass, Trash Baby.”

Jungkook’s grin returned, albeit colder, tinged with a humorless edge. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied smoothly, pushing off the wall with a fluid motion.

He moved toward the center of the group, slipping the shiv back into his belt with a practiced ease. The light flickered again, but this time, no one remarked on it. They were all too focused on the fragile thread of hope they were about to chase.

“Let’s move,” Y/N said, her voice steady, cutting through the silence like a command.

Jungkook led the way, his steps measured, deliberate, seeing the path that no one else could. The rest of the group fell in behind him, their breaths shallow and their hands clutching their makeshift weapons.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The eclipsing planet dominated half the sky, a silent behemoth that radiated a sense of overwhelming insignificance. Its massive shadow swept across the landscape, blanketing it in an unnatural twilight. Only the faint, golden corona of the sun peeked out from the edges of the eclipse, casting an eerie glow over the terrain. Under this dim light, storm clouds began to gather, their bloated forms heavy with rain or worse.

The crash ship loomed ahead, a jagged silhouette against the horizon. Its hull was scorched and battered, barely standing upright. The survivors worked quickly to pry open the cargo doors, the cutting torch hissing and sparking as it sliced through warped metal. The fiery glow cast fleeting, flickering light over their faces, highlighting the grim determination etched into each one.

Y/N stood just behind the torchbearer, her posture sharp and commanding. The light danced across her face, her eyes focused and unwavering. She scanned the blackened expanse beyond the group, her ears straining against the unsettling symphony of primal sounds that echoed through the encroaching darkness. Deep, guttural growls. Sharp, rhythmic clicks. The occasional high-pitched screech that sent shivers down her spine.

The group moved cautiously, their formation tight like hostages being herded by an unseen captor. The torch led the way, its light a fragile bubble of safety. Each step across the open ground felt agonizingly slow, every crunch of debris underfoot a deafening reminder of how exposed they were.

At last, they reached the crash ship’s main cabin. It loomed before them like a darkened maw, its interior shrouded in shadow. The air was colder here, as if the darkness carried its own chill.

Y/N stopped at the threshold, her instincts prickling with unease. She turned toward Jungkook, who stood at the rear of the group, his goggles pushed up onto his forehead. The faint torchlight caught the sharp glint in his eyes, feline and calculating.

“Jungkook,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, cutting through the tense silence.

He stepped forward, his movements deliberate and fluid, like a predator surveying its territory. He tilted his head slightly, listening, then let his gaze sweep across the cabin’s darkened interior.

After a long pause, he spoke. “It looks clear.”

Lee snorted, muttering something under his breath, and pushed past Jungkook without waiting for further confirmation. He climbed up into the cabin, his boots clanging against the metal floor.

No sooner had he straightened to full height than a sharp, whooshing noise sliced through the air above him. Something small and fast bolted from the shadows, its leathery wings brushing the top of his head as it shot out of the cabin and disappeared into the night.

“Fuck me!” Lee cursed, ducking instinctively. His hand shot to his head, checking for injury as his eyes darted wildly around the cabin. “You said it was clear!”

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He remained at the edge of the cabin, his calm demeanor unshaken. “Said looks clear,” he replied evenly, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Lee’s glare could have melted steel. “What’s it look like now?”

Jungkook took another deliberate step forward, peering into the cabin again with an almost languid precision. “Still looks clear.”

Y/N bit back a sigh and climbed into the cabin behind them. “Just get the goddamn lights on,” she muttered, her tone sharp but resigned.

Jungkook let out a soft tongue-click as he followed her inside, a subtle sound of amusement that seemed aimed squarely at Lee. It wasn’t loud, but it carried enough weight to make Lee bristle. The older man turned to shoot him a glare, but Jungkook was already scanning the cabin, his focus elsewhere.

The cabin’s interior was a chaotic mess. Wires hung from the ceiling like vines, swaying slightly in the cool breeze that seeped in through unseen cracks. Broken screens flickered weakly on the control panels, their dying lights casting ghostly flashes across the walls. The faint smell of burnt electronics and charred fabric lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of spilled coolant.

“Peter, help me with the console,” Y/N called, gesturing toward the largest control panel.

Peter scrambled inside, his hands fumbling for the tools in his belt. “On it.”

“Anything moving?” Y/N asked, not looking up from the panel.

“Not yet,” Jungkook replied, his tone casual but vigilant. He lingered near the doorway, his eyes flitting toward every shadow that seemed too deep, every crevice that might conceal a threat.

Behind him, the others filed into the cabin, their nerves fraying as the light from the torch began to sputter and fade.

“Better hurry,” Leo said, her voice trembling as she huddled near the far wall.

Peter muttered a string of curses under his breath as he fiddled with the console. Sparks flew, and for a heart-stopping moment, the cabin plunged into near-total darkness. Then, with a stuttering hum, dim overhead lights flickered on, bathing the cabin in a pale, sickly glow.

“Got it!” Peter exclaimed, a note of relief in his voice.

The group collectively exhaled, but the momentary reprieve was short-lived. Outside, the clicking sounds grew louder, echoing like malevolent whispers carried on the wind.

“They know we’re here,” Jungkook said, his voice quiet but certain.

Y/N’s grip on her weapon tightened. “Then we better not waste any more time.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Inside the cabin, the survivors moved with the frantic efficiency of people who knew time was their enemy. The dim, flickering cabin lights were no comfort, but they were enough to illuminate their task. Every second spent here felt stolen, borrowed against a debt they weren’t sure they could repay.

Peter crouched by the battery bay, his hands blackened with grease as he yanked out power cells one by one. The hollow clang of metal on metal reverberated through the cabin as he handed each cell off to Namjoon, who threaded nylon cords through the handles with a practiced, almost mechanical motion. Y/N stood nearby, filling the reservoirs of misting umbrellas with high-octane liquor they’d salvaged earlier. The sickly-sweet scent of the alcohol clung to the air, sharp and volatile.

Oxygen canisters clattered as they were swapped out, fresh ones locked into place with sharp clicks. These were preparations that carried an edge of desperation, a mix of hope and the quiet dread that they might not matter in the end.

Lee sat off to the side, reloading his shotgun. His fingers, once steady, now trembled as he slid each shell into the chamber. The shaking had grown worse over the past hour, and it wasn’t just from exhaustion. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small red morphine shell, its glossy surface catching the weak light. For a moment, he stared at it like it was both a curse and a promise, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white.

“Ready, Lee,” Y/N called, her voice cutting through the cabin’s muted chaos.

Lee’s head snapped up, his expression hardening as he quickly palmed the shell and shoved it back into his pocket. Rising to his feet, he slung the shotgun over his shoulder and muttered, “He’ll lead you over the first cliff, you know that, don’t you?”

Y/N paused, turning toward him with a calm but cutting look. “We’re just burning light here.”

“You give him the cells, give him the ship, and he’ll leave you,” Lee said, his voice low and acidic. “He’ll leave you all out there to die.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, studying him like a puzzle she had no interest in solving. “I don’t get it, Lee. What’s so goddamn valuable in your life that you’re worried about losing? Huh? Is there anything at all? Besides your next hit?”

He didn’t answer.

Her tone softened, though it lost none of its edge. “You’ve got no right to be this scared. Neither one of us does.”

The words lingered for a moment before the cabin lights flickered, sputtered, and died completely, plunging them into darkness.

Outside, a torch flared to life with a deafening roar, its fiery plume casting jagged shadows that danced across the surrounding landscape. Two misting umbrellas, their fabric already burned away, became impromptu flamethrowers, belching fireballs into the encroaching night. The sudden brightness illuminated the survivors in stark relief: Namjoon chained into the first harness of the drag-sled, his broad shoulders braced for the weight. Lee fumbled with the second harness, his trembling hands betraying his frustration.

Jungkook stood nearby, observing the scene with a faint smirk that barely touched his eyes. He leaned down to help Lee with the harness, the irony of the act not lost on either of them—the prisoner aiding his captor.

“Keep the light going,” Y/N called out, her voice sharp and steady over the crackle of flames. “That’s all we have to do to live through this. Just keep your light burning.”

Jungkook slipped a handlight over his neck, adjusting it so the beam cast a halo of illumination down his back. “I’ll be running about ten paces ahead,” he said to Y/N, his tone calm but commanding. “I want light on my back, not in my eyes. And check your cuts. These things know our blood now.”

At his words, Leo froze, her face draining of color. She clutched her torch tighter, as though it alone could keep the fear at bay.

Y/N stepped closer to Jungkook, her hesitation visible in the way her fingers fidgeted against her side. “Jungkook,” she began, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I was thinking we should make some kind of deal. Just in case… you know, this actually works.”

He shook his head, cutting her off. “Had it with deals.”

“But I just wanted to say—”

“Nobody’s gonna turn a murderer loose,” he said flatly, though there was a bitter edge to his tone. “I fucking knew better.”

The words hung in the air like a warning, or perhaps an admission.

Y/N searched his face, her unease deepening. If he didn’t expect to go free, what was he planning?

“It’s been a long time since anyone trusted me,” Jungkook added, almost as an afterthought. “That’s something right there.”

“Can we, though?” Y/N asked softly, her voice trembling despite herself. “Trust you?”

Jungkook hesitated, his expression unreadable. Then, with surprising candor, he replied, “Actually… that’s what I’ve been asking myself.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, his shadow stretching long and dark in the firelight.

Y/N watched him go, her chest tightening with a terrible, nagging thought: What if this was all a mistake?

The drag-sled groaned as it creaked into motion, a makeshift lifeline against the oppressive night. Jungkook took point, his goggles off, his sharp, gleaming eyes scanning the darkness ahead. The light strapped to his back swung rhythmically with his movements, a beacon that guided the rest of the group.

Namjoon and Lee strained against their harnesses, pulling the sled like beasts of burden. Their breath came in labored puffs, visible in the cold night air. Fireball torches flared intermittently at the edges of their procession—one held by Leo, the other by Y/N—casting brief but vital light into the shadows.

At the rear, Peter stumbled along, wielding the cutter like a shield, sweeping it in wide arcs that betrayed his growing paranoia. They moved as a fragile train of light, a living thread that barely held the encroaching darkness at bay.

On the sled sat four power cells and eight bottles of booze, the last remnants of their hope lashed precariously with fraying cords. The sled creaked with every step, a sound that seemed deafening in the eerie silence of the night. Y/N walked with one hand on the strap of her torch, her eyes scanning the ground as her boots crunched over loose gravel and sand. Her breath hitched when she spotted the faint outline of sand-cat tracks—a reminder of their fleeting connection to anything natural or familiar in this alien wasteland.

But then, as they trudged forward, the tracks vanished, swallowed by the shifting ground. Y/N’s gaze lingered on the empty path ahead, a heavy unease curling in her chest.

“So, you saw it too?” Lee muttered, his voice low and dripping with suspicion.

Before she could answer, Y/N lifted her head, her voice cutting through the rasp of their breathers. “Jungkook,” she called sharply, her tone demanding answers.

The group instinctively slowed, clustering tighter together under the protective glow of their torches. The faint hum of distant movement made the shadows seem alive.

“Where are the sand-cat tracks?” Y/N pressed, stepping closer to Jungkook. Her words came fast and clipped. “Why aren’t we still following them?”

Jungkook didn’t break stride, his gait smooth and deliberate, as if he didn’t feel the tension rising around him. “Saw something I didn’t like,” he said casually, his voice betraying no urgency.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Such as?”

He shrugged, an almost flippant gesture that felt maddening in the circumstances. “Hard to tell sometimes… even for me. Looked like a bunch of those big boys chewing each other’s gonads off. Thought we’d swing wide. Okay by you?”

The group exchanged uneasy glances, Peter visibly paling. He turned his head, his eyes darting to the darkness behind them. “We went around what?” he asked, his voice cracking under the strain.

The sound of clicking filled the air—soft, distant, but unmistakable.

“Let’s move,” Y/N ordered, her voice cutting through their hesitation. She placed a steadying hand on Leo’s shoulder, urging her forward. “Just a detour. He’ll get us there.”

Peter hesitated, his nerves clearly fraying. “Can we switch?”

Y/N frowned. “Switch what?”

“My position,” Peter said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I think I twisted my ankle running backward like that, and I’m not sure I can—” He faltered under the weight of their collective glares. “Okay, that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be alone back there anymore. If you could just give me a few minutes up front—”

“She’s the pilot,” Lee snapped. “She should stay close to the cells.”

Peter threw up his hands, exasperated. “Oh, so I’m disposable now?”

Y/N didn’t have the patience for the argument. “I’ll switch!” she barked, her frustration boiling over. “Christ, just get this train moving!”

The group shuffled awkwardly as Y/N moved to the rear guard. Peter exhaled in relief, gripping his torch tighter as he joined the side guard. But the clicking never stopped. It seemed to echo in their ears, sharper and closer with every step, like the rhythm of a predator's heartbeat.

A sputtering sound drew their attention. Peter’s torch flickered weakly, its fireball dimming to a dangerous glow. He glanced down, panic flashing across his face. “Light, please, need light here!”

Namjoon and Lee swung their beams toward him, but their movements left gaps in the group’s circle of illumination. In that brief moment, Leo drifted too far from the light.

The clicking shifted—sharp, high-pitched, and urgent.

“Leo!” Namjoon lunged forward, tackling her to the ground just as a scythe-like claw slashed through the air, skimming the chains of his harness with a metallic screech.

Lee spun, his shotgun snapping up instinctively. He fired into the darkness, the muzzle flash cutting through the shadows like lightning. The sound echoed, deafening in the stillness, but the predator had already vanished.

“Am I cut?” Namjoon’s voice trembled as he helped Leo to her feet. His hands fumbled for his light, flipping the switch over and over, but it remained stubbornly dark.

Behind them, Peter stumbled into the darkness. A sharp cry escaped him as something slashed across his back, tearing through fabric and flesh with sickening precision.

“Oh, sweet Jesus…” Peter’s voice was panicked, raw with fear. Blood dripped down his side, staining the ground in dark streaks. “Will you GET ME SOME LIGHT OVER HERE!”

The group turned, their torches sweeping wildly, but it was too late. A blur of motion darted from the shadows, dragging Peter into the abyss.

Jungkook stood still, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He didn’t chase after Peter; there was no point. Instead, he watched as the predators tore into him with terrifying efficiency, their movements frenzied and primal. A female predator arrived late to the feast, a youngling clinging to her back. Unable to find space among the others, she whipped the youngling off and devoured it instead.

Y/N stared, horrified, as the predators began turning on each other, ripping into flesh and bone with no semblance of order.

“They’re fighting,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook didn’t respond. His jaguar-like eyes tracked two of the creatures that had broken away from the carnage. Their heads tilted in unison, their sharp, angular features glinting faintly in the coronal light.

They were looking at Leo.

“What do you see?” Y/N asked, though she already feared the answer.

“Hunger,” Jungkook murmured, his voice low and weighted. “I see sixty years of hunger.”

Jungkook didn’t reply. The wind was picking up, carrying with it the ominous sound of distant thunder. It wasn’t a storm. It was the howl of predators closing in.

“Move!” Y/N shouted, her voice slicing through the rising tension.

Leo gripped Peter’s torch tightly, the flame spitting weak fireballs that barely lit the path ahead. Each step she took was uneven, but determination kept her moving forward. The torch was her lifeline, its faint light the only thing keeping the encroaching darkness at bay.

Y/N followed at the rear, her cutter sputtering in her hand before dying completely. She cursed under her breath and hurled it to the ground in frustration, her hand darting toward Leo’s torch.

“Bottle count,” she demanded, her voice sharp, urgency snapping like a whip.

Leo hesitated, glancing down at the flickering reservoir in her hand. “Four fulls. One half.” She hesitated, her voice dipping into a faint, hopeful question. “Does that mean we’re halfway there?”

Y/N didn’t answer. None of them really knew. The canyon was their destination, but it felt more like an endless nightmare with every step. Their only guide was the faint gleam of light reflecting off Jungkook’s back, his unshakable stride the closest thing they had to a compass.

“Can we pick up the pace?” Y/N urged, her tone cutting through the oppressive silence.

Lee, trudging just ahead of her, muttered something under his breath, too low to hear. His voice rose just enough as he threw a glance over his shoulder. “If you think you can do better…” His words trailed off, his breath catching as he suddenly thrust an arm across Namjoon’s chest.

Namjoon stumbled to a halt. “What is it?” he hissed, his own fear bubbling just below the surface.

Lee pointed ahead with his flashlight, the beam catching faint sled tracks etched into the sand. But something about them felt off—wrong in a way none of them could articulate.

Y/N barely had time to process what she was seeing when a metallic click shattered the fragile quiet. She whirled around, her beam landing on Lee as he stood free of his harness chains, his shotgun pressed firmly to the back of Jungkook’s neck.

“We aren’t that stupid,” Lee growled, his voice low and venomous.

“Stay in the light!” Y/N yelled, her voice strained with panic. “Everybody! Stay in the fucking—”

“We crossed our own tracks,” Namjoon interrupted, his voice tight and brittle.

“Look at them!” Lee barked, gesturing wildly to the marks in the sand. His eyes darted, pupils blown wide with barely-contained hysteria. “He’s running us in circles! Look for yourself!”

“Jungkook!” Y/N snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. She turned her full attention to the man at the front, her pulse pounding in her ears. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jungkook didn’t flinch, even with the barrel of Lee’s shotgun against his neck. His voice was calm, deliberate. “Listen,” he said simply.

The sound came first—low, sharp, and relentless. It was an ominous clicking, growing louder with each passing moment, like a chorus of a hundred Geiger counters riding the wind.

“Canyon ahead,” Jungkook said, his tone even as if he wasn’t standing at gunpoint. “I circled once to buy time to think.”

“Think about what?” Y/N demanded, stepping closer, her heart hammering in her chest.

Jungkook turned his gaze to Leo, his expression unreadable. “About the girl,” he said evenly.

Y/N froze. The chill in his tone was enough to stop her breath. “Girl?”

“She’s bleeding,” Jungkook said, his words deliberate, each one heavy with meaning. “And they’ve been tracking her since we left the ship.”

Lee scoffed, his shotgun pressing harder against Jungkook’s neck. “Bullshit. Leo’s not cut—”

“No,” Jungkook agreed, his calm gaze still on Leo. “She wasn’t.”

Y/N turned to Leo, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. “Leo,” she whispered, dread clawing at her throat. “Is this true?”

Leo’s face crumpled, tears brimming in her eyes. Her voice was small, trembling with guilt. “I didn’t want you to leave me there… back at the ship. I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Oh, God,” Y/N murmured, stepping closer. Her voice softened, cracking with a mix of anger and pity. “Honey, you should’ve told me. You should’ve—”

Lee groaned loudly, cutting her off. “This is such bullshit. You’re telling me we’ve been hauling her bleeding ass across this death trap and didn’t know it?”

“They go off blood,” Jungkook said, his tone cold and devoid of sympathy. “They’ve had a scent since we started.”

“We keep her close,” Namjoon said firmly, his hand brushing Leo’s shoulder in reassurance. “She’ll be safe with us. We—”

“There is no safe,” Jungkook interrupted, his voice a grim, unshakable fact. His eyes swept across the group, lingering briefly on Y/N.

The wind gusted, carrying with it the sound of distant canyon walls and the growing cacophony of clicking. The predators were closing in, their hunt relentless.

Y/N’s voice wavered, her desperation plain. “It’s not gonna work. We’ve gotta go back.”

Lee barked a harsh laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “Go back? Are you out of your damn mind?” His grip tightened on the shotgun as he sneered. “You dragged me out here, and now you want me to crawl back to that hellhole of a ship?”

“I was wrong!” Y/N snapped, her voice rising. “I made a bad call, okay? Now let’s just turn around before—”

“Before what?” Lee cut her off, stepping closer, his frustration spilling over into rage. “Before they find us? They’re already here, Captain. You think going back’s gonna fix that?”

“She’s the captain,” Namjoon said, his voice steady despite the rising tension. “We should listen to her.”

Lee turned on him, his shotgun shaking in his grip. “This captain nearly blew us to hell during the crash!”

“Lee!” Y/N shouted, her voice raw with anger and shame. “This isn’t helping!”

He ignored her, his gaze drilling into Leo. “She tried to kill us. All of us.”

Leo’s wide eyes flicked between them, her lip trembling. “What does he mean?”

“Enough!” Y/N roared, stepping between them. But Lee was already backing toward the sled, his light swaying wildly in the darkness.

“The light moves forward,” Lee said with mock finality, his voice dripping with disdain.

They moved through the boneyard like restless spirits, their progress deliberate and painstaking. Every step seemed to echo with the weight of desperation, their dwindling strength preserved for the canyon ahead. The barren expanse stretched endlessly in every direction, littered with twisted remnants of the past—bones, rusted scraps, and shadows that felt too alive.

At the back, Y/N lagged, her shoulders slumped and movements sluggish, like a rudder barely keeping a ship from capsizing. She kept her eyes on the ground, the grit and debris underfoot a welcome distraction from the oppressive silence. Up front, Yeonjun and Namjoon strained against the sled, their breaths coming in sharp, labored gasps as they dragged its cumbersome load. Each step forward felt like pulling against the earth itself.

Jungkook led the group with an eerie composure, his figure cutting through the haze with unnerving confidence. Beside him, Lee matched his pace, his shotgun resting casually over one shoulder. His presence was a heavy weight, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried an edge that sliced through the stillness.

“Ain’t all of us gonna make it,” he said, his tone almost conversational, as though delivering a fact rather than a death sentence.

Jungkook didn’t look at him. His response was as sharp as a blade. “Just realized that, huh?”

A clicking sound interrupted the tense quiet. It was distant at first, faint and fragmented, but it grew louder with each beat, quick and insistent like a predator honing in on its prey. The sound skittered through the night air, prickling along their spines and setting every nerve on edge.

Lee reacted first, spinning on his heel as the shotgun roared, the explosion of sound ripping through the silence. The muzzle flash flared bright, casting jagged shadows before plunging the group back into darkness. Whatever had made the sound darted away, leaving nothing but the acrid tang of gunpowder and the echo of the shot lingering in their ears.

The group halted, startled and shaken by the violence of the moment. Lee cocked the shotgun with a practiced motion, the click almost casual. His faint smirk, barely visible in the dim light, radiated smug satisfaction.

“Six of us left,” Lee said, his voice smooth, laced with an edge that made the words cut deeper. “If we get through that canyon and lose just one, I’d call that a miracle. A damn good one, too.”

“Not if I’m the one,” Jungkook replied, finally meeting Lee’s gaze. His tone was dry, dark humor threading through his words.

Lee tilted his head, the faint glint in his eyes turning sharp. “What if you’re one of five?”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t shift, but the subtle narrowing of his eyes spoke volumes. He said nothing, and in his silence, the weight of his consideration hung heavy.

Farther back, Leo squinted at the wavering light ahead. “What’re they doing up there?” she asked, her voice hushed but nervous.

Namjoon walked beside her, his movements tight with tension despite his attempt at a casual tone. “Talking about the canyon,” he said, though the uncertainty in his voice was obvious. “Figuring out how to get us through, probably.”

Behind them, Y/N’s gaze was locked on the silhouettes of Jungkook and Lee. Their movements were synchronized in a way that made her stomach churn—two wolves prowling side by side, a partnership forged in shared ruthlessness. The sight sent a chill creeping down her spine.

Ahead, Lee leaned toward Jungkook, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s nasty business,” he said. “But it’s no worse than what a battlefield doc does. They call it triage.”

Jungkook’s reply was as cold as the steel glint in his eyes. “Funny. They called it murder when I did it.”

Lee waved a dismissive hand, brushing the comment aside like a bothersome insect. “Call it what you want,” he said. “It’s something you can wrap your head around.”

Jungkook didn’t respond, his expression an unreadable mask, but the silence between them was an invitation for Lee to continue.

“We make a sacrifice play,” Lee explained, his voice turning disturbingly conversational. “One body at the canyon’s entrance. Call it chum in the water.”

Jungkook tilted his head, his dark amusement flickering faintly. “You’d drag it behind us with the sled cable,” he guessed, his tone dry and detached.

“Exactly,” Lee said, nodding. “Just enough to keep those land sharks off our scent. We don’t feed ‘em—we just distract ‘em.”

Jungkook’s gaze shifted back to the group, lingering on each face for a moment too long. When he spoke, his words were deliberate, carefully chosen. “So,” he said softly, “which one caught your eye?”

Lee muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed ahead, as though refusing to meet Jungkook’s eyes absolved him. “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look,” he mumbled, the words barely audible.

From the rear, Y/N caught the exchange, the way Lee averted his gaze and the way Jungkook’s lingered. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot of unease. “Namjoon,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What?” Namjoon turned to her, his brows furrowed.

“Slow down,” Y/N hissed, her urgency cutting through his hesitation. “Don’t stop—just slow down. Put some distance between us and them.”

Namjoon hesitated, torn between instinct and her pleading tone. “We should stay together—”

“Just do it,” she said, desperation sharpening her words. “Please.”

Ahead, Jungkook’s voice broke the fragile silence. “What’s her name, anyway?”

Lee shot him a sharp look, defensive. “What do you care?”

Jungkook shrugged, his lips twitching into a humorless smile. “I don’t.”

“Then don’t name the turkey,” Lee muttered. “Keep it simple. You still got a shiv, right?”

Jungkook’s smirk widened, but his eyes remained devoid of humor. “You expect me to do it?”

Lee’s tone turned mocking, disdain dripping from every word. “What’s one more? You think this is the one that punches your ticket to hell?”

“Oh, you’re a masterpiece, Lee,” Jungkook replied, his voice calm but steeped in contempt. “They should hang you in a museum. Or just hang you.”

The group behind them slowed further, the gap between them growing wider. Y/N kept her focus on the pair ahead, dread pooling in her gut as she watched the silent exchange.

“All right,” Lee said after a moment, his tone sharpening. “You do the girl. I’ll keep the others off your back.”

Jungkook stopped abruptly, turning his head to study Lee with unsettling curiosity.

“Don’t tell me you’re growin’ a conscience,” Lee sneered, exasperation edging his voice.

Jungkook shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. “Just thinking,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “What if we need a bigger piece of chum?”

Lee froze, his shoulders stiffening as the meaning behind the words settled over him. “Like who, Mr. Chrislam?” he snapped.

The night pressed in around them, the flickering torchlight offering little solace. From the rear, Y/N gripped Leo’s torch tightly, the flames sputtering like a dying star. The weight of their reality bore down on her, and as the group moved in uneasy silence, the dread gnawed at her relentlessly.

“Bottle count,” Y/N demanded, her voice sharp, taut as a drawn wire.

Leo hesitated, her eyes flicking nervously to the dwindling torchlight. “Four fulls, one half. Does that mean we’re halfway there? I hope?”

Y/N didn’t respond, her focus fixed on the light bobbing on Jungkook’s back, a ghostly beacon in the suffocating gloom. His silent, purposeful stride cut through the night like a blade. She tightened her grip on the torch, the heat a meager comfort against the growing dread. “Can we pick up the pace?”

The ominous click of a shotgun being cocked shattered the air like a gunshot itself. Y/N whirled just in time to see Lee, unchained and unhinged, pressing the barrel against the back of Jungkook’s neck. His grin was a predator’s snarl, all teeth and venom. “We aren’t completely stupid,” he growled.

“Stay in the light!” Y/N barked, her voice rising above the chaos. “Everybody! Stay in the fucking light!”

Jungkook didn’t flinch, his calm defying the shotgun at his nape. “Listen,” he said, his voice like iron against the storm.

Then came the sound—a metallic hum riding the wind, sharp and insistent, like a hundred Geiger counters ticking in unison. It crawled under their skin, making their bones itch.

Lee moved before she could process it. The shotgun swung wide, and the world exploded into chaos.

“Bring the light!” Y/N shouted, her voice cutting through the panic. “Leave the sled! Move, now!”

The torchlight hit the ground, casting a harsh, flickering circle around them. Jungkook and Lee collided, a feral clash of bodies and brute force. They grappled like wild animals, their movements raw and savage, the shotgun skittering away into the darkness.

Jungkook moved with a predator’s grace, his shiv glinting faintly in the dying light as he sidestepped Lee’s first clumsy swing. His movements were measured, precise—each step deliberate, like a hunter toying with wounded prey.

“Gotta stay in the light, Lee,” Jungkook taunted, his voice low and cutting, sharp enough to bite through the heavy tension in the air. “That’s the only rule.”

Lee’s breath came in harsh, ragged bursts as he circled, his boots grinding against the brittle bones scattered beneath their feet. His eyes darted nervously between the dim circle of light and Jungkook, who seemed almost to dissolve into the encroaching darkness, reappearing only when he moved closer to strike.

With a growl of frustration, Lee lunged, swinging wildly. Jungkook ducked under the blow with a fluid ease that was almost nonchalant, his shiv flashing upward in a shallow slice across Lee’s forearm. Blood welled immediately, dripping onto the ground.

“Damn you,” Lee hissed, clutching his arm as he stumbled back.

“Not yet,” Jungkook replied, his voice cold, mocking. “You’ll know when it happens.”

Lee’s hand scrabbled desperately across the ground until it found purchase on a jagged rib-bone. He swung it upward with both hands, aiming for Jungkook’s head, but the blow never landed.

Jungkook sidestepped again, faster this time, and slammed his boot into Lee’s ribs. The force of the kick sent Lee staggering backward, his grip on the makeshift club faltering. The bone clattered to the ground as Jungkook closed the distance, his shiv darting forward like a striking serpent.

“Should’ve kept the chains on, Lee,” Jungkook murmured as the blade nicked Lee’s shoulder. His tone was conversational, dripping with disdain. “You had guts back then. Now look at you—Billy Bad-Ass, all bark and no bite.”

Lee lunged again, his movements growing more desperate with each passing second. He managed to shove Jungkook off-balance, sending them both sprawling into the circle of light.

Lee rolled first, scrambling toward the fallen shotgun. His fingers brushed the barrel just as Jungkook grabbed his ankle, yanking him backward with such force that he slammed face-first into the ground. Blood smeared across the dirt as Lee spat a curse, twisting to kick at Jungkook.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He caught Lee’s boot mid-kick and twisted, eliciting a sharp crack from Lee’s ankle. Lee howled in pain, collapsing onto his back.

“You’re making this too easy,” Jungkook said, his voice dripping with disappointment as he rose to his feet. He stepped deliberately into the narrow cone of light cast by the discarded torch, his expression cold and unreadable.

Lee clawed at the ground, dragging himself toward the shotgun with trembling hands. He reached it, curling his fingers around the stock, and turned with a feral grin.

“Still Billy Bad-Ass,” Lee rasped, blood staining his teeth as he swung the weapon upward.

But then the light flickered, stuttering like a dying heartbeat. Shadows surged forward, thick and consuming, swallowing the edges of the circle.

Lee froze, his grin faltering. The clicking returned—closer now, sharp and insistent, a metallic cacophony that prickled along their spines.

Jungkook stepped back, his dark eyes glinting as he watched Lee’s panic mount.

“You feel that?” Jungkook asked, his voice soft, almost curious. “That’s what real fear feels like, Lee. No shotgun’s gonna save you now.”

The darkness swallowed the last remnants of light, leaving only the sound—the deafening CLICKING—and Lee’s ragged, terrified breaths.

The predator struck like a living shadow, silent and sudden. It lifted Lee effortlessly, its massive form outlined only by faint starlight. For a moment, it seemed almost curious, its blade-like appendage tracing along Lee’s body with a grotesque sort of delicacy.

Lee’s screams shattered the silence, high-pitched and guttural. The predator paused, as if savoring the sound, before driving its blade home with a sickening crunch.

Jungkook stood motionless, his silhouette blending into the shadows as the predator retreated, dragging Lee’s limp body into the void. The clicking faded, leaving only silence.

When Y/N, Namjoon, and Leo caught up, Jungkook stood motionless in the shadows, his figure outlined by the faint glow of their approaching torches. His goggles glinted like the eyes of a predator at rest, his posture deceptively calm.

“Where’s Mr. Lee?” Namjoon asked, his voice trembling, the question catching in his throat.

Jungkook tilted his head, his tone almost casual, though his words cut like glass. “Which half?”

Leo froze, her face crumpling under the weight of the answer. “Gonna lose everybody out here,” she whispered, her voice breaking like brittle glass. Her grip on the bottle she held faltered, and it slipped slightly before she caught it.

For a moment, something unspoken passed through Jungkook’s gaze—a fleeting softness, gone as quickly as it appeared. “He died fast,” he said quietly, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “And if we have any choice, that’s how we should all go out.”

He crouched to Leo’s level, his presence commanding but his tone almost tender. “Don’t cry for Lee,” Jungkook said firmly, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Don’t you dare. Tears out here are a waste.”

Above them, the canyon roared with noise—clicking, snapping, the grotesque wet sounds of rending flesh and the unmistakable crunch of bone. It was a symphony of death, the air heavy with dread and the acrid smell of decay.

The small group stood on the edge of the boneyard, their torches casting trembling halos of light into the encroaching darkness. The skeletal remains scattered across the ground seemed to mock their efforts, whispering the inevitability of their fate.

“How many do you see?” Y/N asked, forcing her voice to steady despite the knot of fear in her chest.

Jungkook’s head turned slightly, his goggles reflecting the faint light like the eyes of some nocturnal beast. “One. Maybe two.”

Y/N glanced toward Leo. “What do we have left?”

Leo’s hand trembled as she checked their remaining supply. “Three full bottles. But it’s almost time to refill.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Y/N cursed under her breath. “Doesn’t sound like enough to double back.”

Jungkook shrugged, a grim smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t matter. Only one way now.”

“What way?” Namjoon asked cautiously.

Jungkook gestured toward the sled. “Turn it over, drag it like a shield. Keep the girl down low. Light everything we’ve got—and run through like dogs on fire.”

Namjoon frowned, his voice hesitant. “The sled... as a shield?”

“It’ll buy us seconds,” Jungkook replied, his voice steady and too calm.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “And the cells?”

Jungkook’s smirk widened slightly. “I’ll take those.”

Her gaze bore into him, sharp and unyielding. “We’re just here to carry your light, aren’t we? Just the torch-bearers.”

Jungkook met her stare without flinching. “Let’s drop back and boot up.”

They set to work among the skeletal ruins, their movements urgent but controlled. Jungkook lashed the cells together with strips of fabric, fashioning a crude harness as Namjoon stood close by, murmuring softly under his breath.

Jungkook glanced at him, his hands tightening the knots. “What’re you mumbling about?”

Namjoon hesitated, then answered, “Blessing you. Like the others.”

Jungkook huffed a humorless laugh. “Waste of breath.”

“It’s not,” Namjoon said softly, his voice unwavering. “Even if you don’t believe in God, that doesn’t mean He won’t—”

Jungkook cut him off, his voice low and sharp. “Oh, I believe in God. You don’t spend half your life locked up with a horse-bit in your mouth and not believe. You don’t start out in a liquor store trash bin with an umbilical cord wrapped around your neck and not believe.” His gaze turned icy, his tone colder still. “I believe in Him. And I hate the fucker.”

Namjoon swallowed hard but said nothing.

Jungkook adjusted the harness with practiced efficiency, his voice softening slightly. “Save your blessings for the girl. She’ll need a spare.”

When they reached the start of the gauntlet, their torches burned brighter than ever, every flame stoked to its limit. Y/N and Namjoon strapped themselves to the overturned sled, their breathers hissing in sync. Leo crawled beneath the sled, curling into its shadow, her trembling hands clutching the last remaining bottles. Yeonjun clung to his handlight, his knuckles white with strain.

Jungkook stood apart, his goggles in place, his expression unreadable as he shouldered the harnessed cells. “As fast as you can,” he said to Y/N, his tone leaving no room for debate.

“You sure you can—” she started, but he cut her off with a sharp glare.

“As fast as you can,” he repeated, his voice final.

The group surged forward.

The sled scraped and jolted as Y/N and Namjoon pulled with everything they had, their muscles straining under the weight. Leo kept low, her breaths audible and panicked, while Yeonjun stumbled alongside, his light bobbing erratically.

Behind them, Jungkook moved like a machine, the harness digging into his shoulders as he dragged the cells through the boneyard. The torches painted wild, flickering patterns on the canyon walls, creating a fragile wall of light that barely held back the encroaching shadows.

Above, predators launched from the canyon rim, their shadows stretching like monstrous wings against the jagged rock faces. Their cries, sharp and guttural, echoed through the narrow pass, amplifying the chaos. The first wave of hatchlings swarmed toward the torchlight, their sleek, scaled bodies darting like arrows. At the last second, they veered away, repelled by the searing flames.

“Don’t look!” Jungkook’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding over the cacophony.

Thin streaks of glowing blue liquid splattered down from above, hissing as they hit the hot, rocky ground. Y/N instinctively glanced upward, a decision she regretted instantly. The sky above was alive with writhing forms—predators slashing and tearing at one another in a frenzy of hunger and rage. Wings and limbs tangled, snapping bones and spilling glowing blood as they collided mid-air. The sheer size and ferocity of the beasts made her breath catch in her throat.

“Do not look up!” Jungkook barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Eyes on the ground! Keep going, keep going, keep going!”

Y/N forced her gaze downward, her heart hammering as she quickened her pace. The ground was slick with the iridescent, metallic-smelling blood of the creatures, and the sickening thuds of entrails raining from above filled the air. It was like running through a storm of gore.

Namjoon’s voice rose above the chaos, calm and unwavering despite the madness. “So dark the clouds around my way, I cannot see. But through the darkness, I believe God leadeth me...” His words, steady and rhythmic, cut through the noise like a fragile lifeline.

The rain of bodies intensified. Broken predators slammed into the ground with bone-shaking force, their corpses twisting grotesquely as they landed. One crashed dangerously close to Yeonjun, its razor-edged blade slicing across his leg. He staggered, biting down a cry of pain, and kept moving, his face pale but determined.

Ahead, the canyon loomed like the gaping maw of some ancient beast, its jagged walls narrowing to form a sinister throat. Every sound seemed magnified, the clicking, snapping, and howling bouncing off the rock, trapping them in a symphony of terror.

Y/N’s torchlight revealed the choke-point first: a grotesque barricade of predator corpses piled high across the path, steaming and glistening with fresh blood. The tangled mass of bodies looked like the aftermath of a brutal battle, their twisted forms creating a barrier that blocked the way forward. Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat.

“Jungkook?” she called, her voice edged with panic. “JUNGKOOK?”

Jungkook stopped just ahead of the group, his silhouette stark against the flickering torchlight. He turned his head slightly, his tone flat and grim. “It’s a fucking staircase,” he said, his voice cold. “Go over it. GO OVER IT!”

Leo was the first to move, her torch quivering in her hands as she crouched down, using the corpses as handholds to climb. The stench of death clung to her, the heat rising from the pile making her gag. Her foot slipped on the slick surface of a predator’s shredded wing, and she choked back a cry.

Then one of the “dead” predators moved.

Its head snapped toward her, razor-sharp teeth gnashing as it lunged. Leo screamed, jerking back, and lost her footing completely. She tumbled down the mound of bodies, landing hard at the base, exposed in the flickering light.

“Leo!” Y/N shouted, already scrambling down after her.

Leo barely had time to roll to her side before a massive predator slammed onto the sled-shield she had been crawling beneath. Bone-blades pierced through the metal with a deafening screech, missing her by mere inches. The creature howled, thrashing violently as it tried to free itself from the shield. Its fury was palpable, steam rising from its heaving body as the torchlight illuminated its jagged, serrated form.

Jungkook was a blur of movement.

He stepped to the edge of the light, his posture eerily calm, his muscles coiled like a predator himself. The creature turned to face him, its clicking intensifying into a furious crescendo. It lunged, its scythe-like blades slicing through the air with deadly precision.

Jungkook dodged, his movements impossibly fast and fluid. He slid under the predator’s chest, his shiv flashing as it carved deep into its vulnerable underbelly. Blue blood sprayed, hissing as it hit the ground.

The predator screamed, a sound so piercing it made Y/N’s ears ring. It reared back, swiping wildly, but Jungkook was relentless. He moved like a shadow, every step calculated, every strike precise. The creature lunged again, its massive jaws snapping shut where Jungkook had been just a second before.

“Stay down, Leo!” Y/N yelled, dragging the girl back toward the shield as the battle raged.

Jungkook ducked under another swipe, his shiv slicing through the creature’s tendon. It stumbled, one of its legs collapsing beneath it. He didn’t hesitate. In a single fluid motion, he vaulted onto its back, driving his blade into the base of its skull. The predator convulsed violently, its death throes shaking the ground.

Jungkook leapt clear just as the creature collapsed, its massive form slamming into the pile of corpses with a sickening crunch.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the labored breathing of the group. Jungkook turned, his face streaked with blue blood, his eyes unreadable behind his goggles.

“Get up,” he said to Leo, his voice steady but firm. “We’re not stopping here.”

He gestured toward the pile. “Over it. Now.”

Y/N helped Leo to her feet, her own legs trembling as she nodded. They climbed the barricade, the others following close behind. The sound of clicking returned, growing louder, the darkness behind them shifting as more predators closed in.

Jungkook glanced back once, his expression grim. “Move faster. Or you’ll find out how fast I can’t save you.”

A piercing, shrieking click cut through the air, reverberating off the canyon walls. Jungkook spun instinctively, his movements sharp and precise. Above them, a monstrous shape unfurled, its hammer-shaped head swaying like a deadly pendulum. The creature’s pale, segmented body shimmered grotesquely in the faint light, its sinewy muscles rippling as it prepared to strike.

Hot, rancid breath washed over them, thick and suffocating. The predator loomed closer, every inch of it screaming lethal intent. Y/N felt her limbs lock in place, her instincts fighting against the primal urge to run.

Jungkook, however, was already moving. His hand darted to his belt, and with a metallic whisper, he unsheathed his shiv. The blade caught the faint flicker of torchlight, gleaming like a sliver of salvation.

The beast lunged, its hammerhead smashing down toward Jungkook with a force that cracked the earth beneath it. But Jungkook had already sidestepped, the ground where he’d stood exploding into shards of stone and dust.

“Back up!” he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip.

Y/N and Namjoon obeyed immediately, stumbling backward as they dragged Leo and the sled-shield with them. The predator rose again, its massive frame casting long, twisting shadows. It released a guttural howl, its hammerhead shifting slightly to reveal serrated mandibles that snapped together with terrifying precision.

Jungkook didn’t falter. His expression remained cold and unyielding, his eyes locked on the beast. He moved with the calculated grace of a predator himself, circling the creature, his shiv gripped tightly in his hand.

The creature lunged a second time, faster and more deliberate. Its head whipped through the air with a sound like a breaking whip, aiming to crush him. But Jungkook dropped low, sliding forward beneath its torso with lethal precision.

In a single, fluid motion, he drove his blade upward. The shiv’s edge found the soft, pale flesh of the beast’s underbelly, slicing through with sickening ease. Blue, viscous blood sprayed out in a violent arc, steaming as it hit the cold rocks.

The creature let out a bone-rattling shriek, a sound so loud and alien it felt like it might tear the sky apart. Its segmented legs spasmed wildly, gouging the ground as it staggered. Blue blood poured from the gash Jungkook had made, its innards spilling out in a grotesque heap of steaming flesh.

Jungkook rolled clear as the beast crumpled, its body convulsing once before collapsing in a heap. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning gore.

He rose to his feet, his movements steady and controlled. Without a second thought, he wiped the blade clean on the predator’s hide, blue streaks staining his fingers. His breathing was calm, almost unnervingly so, as if slaying such a monstrous foe was routine.

Turning back to the group, Jungkook’s face was unreadable beneath the streaks of blue ichor smeared across his skin. His eyes, however, burned with a glint of something dangerous and unyielding.

Y/N and Namjoon stared at him, frozen in shock, their breaths ragged and shallow. Even Leo, half-hidden beneath the sled, peeked out with wide, horrified eyes.

“Didn’t know who he was fuckin’ with,” Jungkook muttered, his tone flat but laced with a quiet venom.

There was no time to linger. The distant clicking and howling of more predators echoed from deeper in the canyon, the sound growing louder. Jungkook turned away from the beast’s steaming corpse, his focus already shifting to the next threat.

Namjoon’s voice broke the silence, panicked and raw. “Yeonjun! Where’s Yeonjun?”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t stop moving. He gestured sharply toward the sled. “Get the girl back under. Keep going,” he ordered.

“YEONJUN!” Namjoon shouted again, his voice cracking with desperation.

Jungkook’s tone turned lethal, a growl that cut through the canyon air. “KEEP GOING OR I WILL!”

Before they could argue, Yeonjun reappeared—but not in the way they’d hoped. He was thrown into the flickering light by some unseen force, his body a broken, jerking silhouette. Blood streamed from jagged wounds, his limbs twitching feebly as he reached out, his eyes wide with terror.

“Yeonjun!” Namjoon surged forward, but before he could reach him, the boy was yanked back into the darkness by a pair of glistening mandibles. His scream was cut short, swallowed by the clicking and howling of the predators.

Jungkook didn’t look back. “Move!” he barked. “Now!”

The group stumbled forward, dragging the sled-shield and their trembling bodies into the widening canyon. The worst of the sounds began to fall behind them, the predators momentarily distracted by their own frenzied feeding. Y/N dared to hope—just for a second—that they might survive.

But then the torches sputtered.

Leo froze beneath the sled, staring at the shield above her as faint pattering sounds hit the metal. At first, it was soft, almost like mist. Then it grew heavier, louder.

“What’s that?” she whispered.

Y/N extended her hand past the edge of the sled, catching the liquid on her palm. Her stomach churned as she realized it wasn’t blood.

“Rain,” Namjoon murmured, his voice hollow.

The downpour came fast and relentless, extinguishing one torch after another. The flames hissed and sputtered, fighting for survival before dying entirely. They were plunged into near-total darkness, the air heavy with the metallic scent of wet rock and desperation.

Jungkook ripped off his goggles, his eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. He stared up at the black void above, his lips curling into a snarl. “So where the hell’s God now, huh?” he growled, his voice bitter and venomous. “I’ll tell you where! He’s up there, PISSING ON ME!”

“Jungkook!” Y/N’s voice was sharp, cutting through his anger. “How close?”

He squinted into the darkness, his face giving nothing away.

“Tell me the settlement is right there!” she pleaded, her voice cracking with desperation. “JUNGKOOK, PLEASE!”

His answer gutted her. “We can’t make it.”

The sound behind them swelled, the predators closing in. Jungkook’s gaze darted to the canyon wall, spotting a narrow fissure in the rock. He pointed sharply. “Here. Hide here.”

They scrambled toward the crevice, Leo crawling beneath the sled as Y/N and Namjoon wedged themselves into the narrow space. The last torch flickered and died, leaving them in utter darkness.

Y/N hesitated, watching as Jungkook moved to lift the sled-shield, sliding it over the opening like a makeshift barrier.

“Why’s he still out there?” Leo whispered, her voice trembling.

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t know. Was he protecting them? Or leaving them to fend for themselves?

Jungkook’s silhouette lingered outside for a moment, his shiv gleaming faintly as he faced the growing darkness. The sounds of clicking and snapping grew louder, closing in. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip on the blade.

“I’ll buy you time,” he said quietly, more to himself than to them. “Stay hidden. Don’t move.”

Then he stepped away from the crevice, swallowed by the shadows.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Outside, the storm raged with relentless fury, rain pouring down in sheets that turned the rocky ground into a slick, treacherous incline. Jungkook planted his boots firmly in the mud, every step a battle as he hauled the cells up the slope. The harness straps bit into his shoulders, the weight of the cells dragging him backward with every movement. His muscles burned, veins bulging as he gritted his teeth against the strain.

The wind howled, carrying with it the faint, distant echoes of predators’ clicks and howls, a haunting reminder that the danger was far from over. But Jungkook didn’t waver. He bent his body into the climb, his breath coming in harsh bursts, the sound swallowed by the cacophony of the storm.

Finally, his boots found purchase on the uneven ground near the top of the rise. With one last, herculean effort, he heaved the cells over the edge, collapsing to his knees in the mud for a fleeting moment. Rain lashed at his face, plastering his hair to his forehead and running in rivulets down his sharp features. He ignored it, his chest heaving as he forced himself upright.

And then he saw it.

The settlement.

Faintly illuminated by the glow of the skiff’s engines, it lay in the distance, a flickering beacon of hope against the oppressive darkness. Its lights shimmered through the rain, blurred by the sheets of water cascading from the heavens, but it was there. Real. A sanctuary within reach.

Jungkook’s gaze lingered on the sight, his jaw tightening. Relief tried to claw its way into his chest, but he shoved it down. There was no room for celebration, not yet. Not until the others were here. Not until they were all safe.

He gripped the harness straps again, his fingers slipping briefly on the rain-soaked leather. A grim determination settled over him, his expression hardening like stone. He adjusted the weight of the cells, bending slightly to center it, and began moving again.

Each step was deliberate, methodical, as he dragged the cells through the thickening mud. The rain intensified, hammering down with almost punishing force, but he didn’t falter. His boots slipped occasionally, sending jolts through his body as he corrected his balance, but he kept his focus forward, his eyes locked on the faint glow ahead.

The storm seemed to rise against him, as if the world itself were trying to keep him from reaching that distant light. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the canyon walls behind him in stark flashes, revealing shapes that moved too fast to be human. He didn’t look back.

The weight of the cells bore down on him, the straps digging deeper into his shoulders, his back screaming in protest. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

With a final push, he crested the incline, dragging the cells fully onto the flat ground beyond. For a moment, he paused, his silhouette stark against the storm-lit backdrop. Rain plastered his shirt to his frame, water dripping from his lashes as he gazed out at the settlement.

Without looking back, he adjusted the straps once more.

────────────

The crevice was cold and damp, the muffled sounds of the storm outside a constant reminder of the chaos just beyond their fragile sanctuary. Leo huddled closer to Y/N, her small frame trembling as much from fear as from the chill. Her voice was barely above a whisper, strained and fragile, as though speaking louder might shatter the fragile silence. “He’s not coming back, is he?”

Y/N’s heart twisted at the question. She tightened her grip on the girl, pulling her closer, though her own thoughts churned with doubt and dread. Her gaze shifted to Namjoon, who sat hunched against the wall, his face shadowed and unreadable. “Did Jungkook say anything to you?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Namjoon’s head lifted slightly, and he shook it, his expression neutral but weighted with unspoken thoughts. “No,” he said simply, his tone calm but offering no comfort.

Y/N opened her mouth to press further, but something stopped her. She squinted at Namjoon, her brow furrowing. It wasn’t his face—no, it was the fact that she could see it. The dim, suffocating darkness that had surrounded them since they entered the crevice was no longer absolute. A faint light illuminated the space, soft and bluish, like a distant star.

“There’s light in here,” she said, her voice tinged with confusion and a flicker of hope.

Namjoon noticed it too. He pushed himself up, his eyes scanning the rocky walls of the crevice. Slowly, he climbed higher, his hands brushing along the slick surface until they found the source. “It’s here,” he murmured, plucking at something clinging to the stone.

He descended carefully, holding his hand out to Y/N and Leo. In his palm were faintly glowing shapes, tiny and delicate, their soft blue-white light pulsing faintly like the beat of a distant heart.

“Larva,” Namjoon said, his voice hushed as though he feared disturbing the fragile creatures.

Leo leaned in closer, her wide eyes reflecting the glow. “Glow worms,” she whispered, awe mingling with exhaustion.

Y/N stared at the glimmering larvae, her mind snapping into motion like a gear clicking into place. The light was faint, but it was light. It had potential. “How many bottles do we have?” she asked suddenly, her voice taking on an urgent edge. “Empty ones?”

Namjoon frowned, the question catching him off guard. “Maybe two, three?” he guessed, glancing toward the sled.

“Check,” Y/N ordered, her voice brisk now. She shifted Leo off her lap gently but firmly, her mind already piecing together a plan.

Namjoon nodded, crawling over to the sled where the group’s supplies had been hastily stowed. He rummaged through the bags, pulling out three empty glass bottles, their surfaces slick with condensation.

Y/N examined the larvae still glowing in Namjoon’s palm, then the faint traces on the wall above them. They were scattered, but there were enough to work with. Carefully, she reached out to one of the glowing clusters on the wall. It stuck to her fingers, its glow intensifying slightly as she transferred it into an empty bottle.

“We can use this,” she said, her mind racing. “If we can gather enough, we can make light. Not like the torches, but enough to see—enough to move.”

“But won’t the predators see it too?” Leo asked hesitantly, her fear still overriding her budding hope.

Y/N nodded. “That’s the goal. Light keeps those fuckers away.”

Namjoon passed her another bottle, and Y/N worked quickly, carefully gathering more of the bioluminescent larvae from the walls. Leo watched her hands move, her awe slowly returning. “They’re...beautiful,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Namjoon stood back, watching the bottles begin to glow brighter as they filled with the pulsing larvae. His expression softened for the first time since they’d entered the crevice. “It’s something,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“It’s a start,” Y/N corrected, holding up the glowing bottle like a fragile beacon. “Now we just have to survive long enough for it to matter.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The rain hammered down relentlessly, turning the settlement into a glistening, muddy expanse. Every surface gleamed under the rhythmic assault, and the air buzzed with the sharp tang of ozone and wet metal. Jungkook stood in the skiff’s cockpit, his face illuminated by the dim glow of its dormant control panel. He wiped his soaked brow with the back of his hand, his fingers trembling—not from fear, but from the bone-deep exhaustion that clawed at him.

The skiff was old. Its metal frame bore the scars of countless missions: scratches, scorch marks, and hastily patched-over dents. Inside, wires dangled from an open panel beneath the dashboard, sparking faintly as rainwater dripped onto them. Jungkook muttered a curse under his breath, dropping to one knee to get to work.

He yanked his toolkit from a side compartment, flipping it open with a snap. Tools clattered inside—a tangled mess of spanners, screwdrivers, and salvaged parts that looked as battered as the skiff itself. Grabbing a pair of pliers and a wire cutter, Jungkook leaned into the open panel, his eyes narrowing as he examined the mess of frayed wires and corroded circuits.

The primary ignition system was fried. The storm’s earlier surge must’ve shorted it out. Jungkook’s jaw tightened as he traced the damage, his fingers working methodically to strip away the melted insulation and reveal the intact copper beneath.

“Come on,” he growled, his voice low, almost a prayer to the skiff’s battered machinery. “You’ve been through worse. Don’t die on me now.”

He cut and reconnected wires, twisting them tightly together before sealing the joins with a strip of adhesive tape he’d salvaged from the settlement’s dwindling supplies. Sparks flew as he tested the connection, but the hum of power returning to the system sent a flicker of hope through him.

Jungkook shoved himself out from under the dashboard and slammed the panel closed. Standing, he reached for the control lever, his knuckles white as he pulled it. The skiff groaned in protest, the engines sputtering weakly before falling silent again.

“Damn it!” he spat, slamming his fist against the console.

The rain continued its relentless assault, pooling around his boots as he climbed out of the cockpit. He scrambled onto the rear deck, where the exposed engine compartment loomed like the heart of a dying beast. Peeling back the protective cover, Jungkook grimaced at the sight of water pooling in the housing.

Grabbing a hand pump, he worked quickly to siphon the rainwater out, his muscles burning with the effort. His breath came in short bursts, misting in the cold air as he worked, his focus unwavering.

Once the water was cleared, Jungkook leaned over the engine, inspecting the fuel cells he’d hauled up from the canyon earlier. One of them was cracked, the faint smell of leaking fuel mixing with the rain-soaked air. He switched it out with a spare, his hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.

“Almost there,” he muttered to himself, tightening the last connection.

Back in the cockpit, Jungkook wiped his hands on his damp pants and gripped the controls. He hit the ignition switch again, his heart pounding. The skiff sputtered, choked, and then roared to life, its twin engines glowing with a fierce, amber light that cut through the storm. The hum deepened, steadying into a powerful thrum that reverberated through the ground beneath him.

Outside, the light from the engines spilled across the settlement, illuminating the rain-soaked landscape with an otherworldly glow. The mud glistened like molten metal, and the structures of the settlement cast jagged shadows that danced in the downpour.

Jungkook allowed himself a brief smile, his chest rising and falling with relief. He adjusted the controls, testing the throttle as the skiff responded, its frame vibrating beneath him like a creature eager to move.

But his work wasn’t finished. He checked the fuel levels, ensuring the cells were stable. He grabbed a handful of rope and tied down the loose cargo, his mind running through every possible failure point. The skiff might have been operational now, but it was far from invincible.

As the engines settled into a steady hum, Jungkook climbed back into the cockpit and stared out at the stormy horizon. The glow of the engines reflected in his eyes, fierce and determined.

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, her breaths ragged as she scrambled out of the crevice. The faint glow of the worms clinging to the rocks illuminated her path, their eerie light casting trembling shadows on the canyon walls. Behind her, Leo whispered a frantic protest, but Y/N didn’t stop to listen. She couldn’t.

Her boots slipped on the rain-slicked rock as she clambered up the incline, the roar of the storm masking the sound of her hurried movements. Above, the dark sky churned with ominous clouds, lightning splitting the heavens in jagged streaks. Her gaze locked on the faint glimmer in the distance—the settlement.

It stood like a lone beacon in the night, faintly illuminated by the glow of the skiff’s engines. The sight filled her with equal parts relief and fury. Jungkook was there, preparing to leave, and he was about to do it without them.

Her mind raced, her thoughts a whirlwind of desperation and anger. How could he? After everything they’d been through together, after the sacrifices and bloodshed, how could he even think about abandoning them?

Her lungs burned, her legs screaming in protest as she pushed herself harder. The mud sucked at her boots, threatening to slow her, but she fought against it. She slipped once, landing hard on her hands and knees, but the pain barely registered. She was back on her feet in an instant, her resolve unshaken.

Ahead, the settlement’s crude perimeter loomed closer. The skeletal remains of makeshift barricades stood silhouetted against the glow of the skiff. She could hear the faint hum of its engines now, the sound growing louder with each step.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Leo and Namjoon huddled close around the faint glow of their makeshift light—a repurposed bottle filled with wriggling glow-worms. It wasn’t much, but it was all they had, their only barrier against the consuming darkness. The dim bioluminescence painted the walls of the narrow crevice in ghostly blue light, casting long, trembling shadows that danced with each movement of the worms.

Namjoon’s hands trembled as he clutched the bottle, the light shifting faintly with his every shudder. His knuckles were white, his grip desperate, as though he believed the fragile container of light was the only thing keeping them tethered to hope. Leo sat pressed against his side, her knees drawn up to her chest, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.

The air was stifling, heavy with the smell of damp earth and the acrid tang of fear. Every sound seemed amplified in the tight space—the drip of water from the rocks above, the ragged breaths of their small group, and, worst of all, the relentless scrabbling from outside.

The claws had started again, raking against the shield that Jungkook had shoved over the crevice to keep them hidden. The metal groaned under the strain, the scraping sound grating against their nerves like nails on glass.

Namjoon leaned forward, his jaw clenched as he squinted through a small hole in the makeshift barrier. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling quickly, the bottle trembling in his grasp.

“What do you see?” Leo whispered, her voice barely audible.

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. His eyes strained to make out shapes beyond the faint glow, but the storm outside was relentless, rain pounding against the shield, masking the shapes of their predators.

And then it happened.

A blade shot through the hole without warning, slicing through the air where Namjoon’s face had been a split second earlier. The metallic edge glinted in the faint light, a deadly flash of silver that disappeared as quickly as it came.

Namjoon yelped, his body jerking back violently. He clutched the bottle of glow-worms to his chest like a talisman, the light within casting wild, chaotic shadows on the walls as it shook in his hands.

“Namjoon!” Leo gasped, her hands darting out to steady him. Her voice quavered, teetering on the edge of panic.

“I’m fine,” Namjoon panted, though his voice betrayed his terror. He glanced at the barrier, his eyes wide and unblinking, the image of the blade burned into his mind. The light from the glow-worms reflected in his gaze, making him look almost as ghostly as the creatures they were hiding from.

The scratching sounds didn’t stop. If anything, they grew louder, more insistent, as if the predators were testing the limits of the shield. The scraping of claws against metal was interspersed with sharp clicking noises—communication, perhaps, or the prelude to an attack.

Namjoon shifted closer to Leo, his free hand gripping her arm tightly. The pressure of his fingers was almost painful, but she didn’t pull away. She welcomed the contact, grounding herself in the reality of his presence.

“We can’t just sit here,” Leo whispered, her voice shaking.

“We don’t have a choice,” Namjoon replied, his voice hoarse. He held the glow-worms higher, angling the faint light toward the hole. The bioluminescence seemed to hold the creatures at bay for now, the clicking and scraping faltering whenever the glow intensified.

“They’re scared of the light,” Leo murmured, her voice filled with a fragile hope.

“Not scared enough,” Namjoon muttered grimly. He glanced down at the bottle in his hands, watching the tiny worms squirm inside. It was a fragile thing, their makeshift light, and he didn’t know how long it would last.

A sudden thud against the shield made both of them jump, their heads snapping toward the source of the sound. The metal barrier bowed inward slightly, the force behind it unmistakable.

“They’re getting bolder,” Leo said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Namjoon swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the glow-worms. “We have to hold out,” he said, his tone wavering but determined. “Jungkook will come back. He has to.”

But even as he said the words, doubt crept into his voice. They had no way of knowing if Jungkook was still alive, if he’d managed to make it to the settlement—or if he’d abandoned them entirely.

Leo glanced at Namjoon, her fear mirrored in his face. They both knew the truth: they were running out of time.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The rain drummed incessantly on the skiff’s hull as Jungkook sat in the cockpit, his fingers dancing over the controls. The interior lights dimmed to a soft glow while the external beams pierced the downpour, illuminating the barren, desolate landscape. He exhaled sharply, leaning back in the chair, his eyes scanning the monitors for any threats. Then something outside caught his attention—a figure standing defiantly in the headbeams.

Y/N.

Rain streamed down her face, her hair plastered against her skin, but her expression burned with intensity. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t stepping aside. If anything, she seemed ready to throw herself under the skiff to stop it from taking off. Her silhouette, stark against the rain and light, was both fragile and unyielding. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, neither moved.

Jungkook sighed heavily and flipped a switch. The hatch hissed open, the sound barely audible over the pounding rain. He didn’t say a word as Y/N climbed aboard, water dripping from her clothes in rivulets that pooled on the floor. She paused midway down the gangway, the faint interior glow casting harsh shadows on her face. Despite her soaked appearance, the light seemed to carve her features sharper, her resolve unshakable.

“You’re not leaving,” she said, her voice firm, each word deliberate. “Not until we go back for the others.”

Jungkook leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unbothered. He let out a low, humorless laugh, the sound more dismissive than amused.

“I promised them,” Y/N pressed, taking a step closer. “I said we’d go back with more light. That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

“You’ve mistaken me for someone who gives a shit,” Jungkook replied, his tone cold, his gaze steady.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “What’s the matter, Jungkook? Afraid?”

At that, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re confusing me with Lee,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Fear was his monkey. Me? I deal in life and death. All that stuff in between? Shades of gray my eyes don’t see.”

Y/N’s anger flared. “I trusted you. I thought maybe—just maybe—some part of you wanted to be human again.”

Jungkook pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them in a deliberate, slow stride. “Truthfully?” he said with a faint shrug. “I wouldn’t even know how.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her determination faltering for just a moment. “Then wait for me,” she said, her voice shaking but determined. “I’ll go back myself. Just give me the light.”

Jungkook smirked and tossed her a light. It clattered to the floor at her feet, broken and useless. Y/N glared at him, her fists clenching at her sides. “You bastard,” she hissed. “Just come with me.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You come with me.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. She stared at him, incredulous.

“They’re already dead,” he said bluntly, his eyes scanning her face for a reaction. “Get on board.”

“You’re messing with me,” she said, her voice cracking. “I know you are.”

“Of course I am,” Jungkook admitted with infuriating calm. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t leave you here. If you believe anything about me, believe that.”

Y/N’s voice rose, trembling with desperation. “I promised them. I have to go. I have to…”

Jungkook reached out, his movements deliberate and slow. “Step aboard, Y/N.”

“I can’t…” Her voice wavered, her confidence slipping.

“Here,” he said, extending his hand. “Make it easy on yourself.”

“Don’t do this to me,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“Just give me your hand.”

“They could still be…” Her voice was barely audible now, choked with emotion.

“No one’s going to blame you,” he said softly, his tone almost kind. “Take my hand and save yourself.”

Y/N stared at his hand, her thoughts a whirlwind of guilt and defiance. Then, in a burst of motion, she grabbed it—but instead of stepping aboard, she yanked him down the gangway. They tumbled into the mud, the rain soaking them both instantly. Jungkook tried to rise, but Y/N was faster. She planted a knee on his neck, pinning him down with surprising strength.

“I will not give up on them!” she snarled, her voice raw with emotion. “I will not leave anyone on this rock with those things!”

Jungkook moved in a blur, rolling them over until he was on top, pinning her arms with his hands. The sharp tip of his shiv pressed lightly against her neck, but his face wasn’t angry. His expression was calm, curious even. His voice, when he spoke, was soft. “You’d die for them?”

“I would try for them,” Y/N spat back, her eyes blazing up at him.

“You barely know them,” he countered, his tone almost detached.

“I’m human,” she replied, her voice trembling but fierce. “I know you think that’s a weakness, but I feel fear—mine and theirs. Goddammit, Jungkook, yes. I would die for them.”

For a long moment, Jungkook didn’t move. Rain dripped from his hair onto her face, mingling with her tears. Finally, he sighed and eased back, the shiv disappearing into its sheath.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Let’s fucking move before they get eaten and we’ve wasted our time.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The scrabbling at the shield grew louder, each scratch like a countdown to disaster. Namjoon tensed, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his blade. His breath came fast and shallow as he fixed his eyes on the vibrating metal, ready to strike at whatever horror broke through.

Suddenly, the shield shifted. It heaved to one side, and for a split second, Namjoon thought the worst. Then, with a grunt of effort, Y/N appeared, her arms trembling as she dragged the barrier aside. Her soaked face was flushed with determination, streaked with mud and rain.

Behind her, looming like a shadow, was Jungkook. His dark eyes scanned the interior with an intensity that sent a chill through the air. “You came for us,” Leo whispered, her voice shaky, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jungkook muttered, brushing past her without a second glance. “We’re all fucking amazed. Anyone not ready for this?”

They wasted no time. Y/N and Namjoon moved to gather the last of their makeshift lights—bottles filled with dimly glowing worms. It wasn’t much, but it was all they had. Outside, the rain poured harder, drenching them as they emerged from the crevice. The ground had turned to slick mud, making every step treacherous.

“Tighter,” Jungkook barked, his voice cutting through the downpour. “Stay tight and stay quiet.”

They moved in a huddled cluster, their breaths hitching with every distant screech or skittering sound. The faint glow of their lights barely illuminated the space in front of them, leaving the surrounding darkness heavy and oppressive. Jungkook led the way, his steps sure, his eyes constantly scanning for movement.

At the top of a muddy rise, Jungkook stopped abruptly, throwing up a hand. The group froze behind him, their breaths suspended.

“What is it?” Namjoon whispered, straining to see.

“I don’t hear—” Y/N started, but Jungkook’s hand shot out, clamping over her mouth. He didn’t speak, just tilted his head toward the base of the rise.

In the dim glow of the worms, the scene below slowly came into focus. A predator crouched by a pool of water, its elongated limbs gleaming with rain. It moved with a predatory grace, lapping at the water in sharp, mechanical motions. A second one appeared, then a third. Soon, the pool became a grotesque gathering, the creatures landing silently, their guttural clicks blending with the patter of the rain.

“Get behind me,” Jungkook whispered, his voice barely audible but commanding.

Y/N and the others moved closer together, gripping one another tightly. The predators shifted, revealing a slim gap in their formation. A path.

“When I go, we go,” Jungkook murmured, his tone steady as steel. “Full-throttle. No stopping, no looking back.”

The group nodded, their hands trembling as they prepared to run. The rain seemed to fall even harder, each drop a drumbeat against the tense silence.

The gap widened. Jungkook tensed, his muscles coiled like a spring. “Ready... ready…”

Then he bolted.

The group followed in a chaotic, stumbling chain, their glow-worm lights bobbing wildly. The predators scattered at the sudden intrusion, their clicks turning to screeches as they scrambled out of the way. The sound was deafening, a cacophony of rage and hunger. Water splashed up in arcs as they charged through the pool and up the rise.

Leo slipped, her foot catching on a root hidden in the mud. She screamed as she slid backward, her legs plunging into the water. The predators snapped their heads toward her, their movements too fast to track.

“Leo!” Y/N screamed, but Jungkook was already moving. He spun on his heel, skidding through the mud to reach her just as the first predator lunged. With a growl of effort, he caught her arm and hauled her upward, throwing her over the top of the rise with a strength that defied belief.

“Go!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “You know the way!”

Y/N hesitated for a fraction of a second, torn between running and staying. Then Namjoon grabbed her arm, dragging her forward. Together, they helped Leo to her feet, and the three of them scrambled down the other side of the rise.

The settlement was a faint silhouette in the distance, its jagged structures barely visible through the rain and darkness. The glow-worm light flickered as they ran, the mud sucking at their boots with every step. Y/N’s lungs burned, her legs screaming for rest, but she forced herself onward. She couldn’t stop. Not now.

Behind them, the night came alive with sound. The screeches of the predators grew louder, accompanied by the sharp clang of metal against claws. Y/N risked a glance back, her heart plummeting.

Jungkook wasn’t there.

Her feet faltered, panic surging through her. “Jungkook!” she shouted into the night, her voice hoarse. Namjoon grabbed her arm, pulling her forward.

“Keep moving!” he yelled. “He’ll catch up!”

A sound cut through the rain—heavy, wet breathing, like some monstrous engine laboring in the dark. Then, out of the shadows, movement. Jungkook appeared, his figure a blur of mud and blood, his steps unrelenting.

But he wasn’t alone.

A predator lunged out of the darkness, its jagged limbs slicing through the air. Jungkook skidded to a halt, his boots digging into the mud. Another predator perched above, crouched like a nightmare on the edge of a building, its clicking reverberating in the night.

Jungkook’s hands moved in a flash, twin shivs appearing in his grip. The faint light caught the blades, illuminating his face—a mask of focus and feral determination. His breathing steadied, his body lowering into a stance that spoke of countless battles.

Behind him, the creatures circled, their movements deliberate, their clicks crescendoing into a symphony of death.

Y/N froze at the settlement’s edge, her heart pounding. “Jungkook!” she screamed again, her voice breaking.

He didn’t look back. Instead, he bared his teeth in a sharp grin, his eyes glinting with something primal. “Keep running!” he roared, the sound cutting through the rain like a war cry.

Then he charged.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Back at the skiff, Namjoon and Leo staggered up the gangway, their soaked bodies leaning heavily on one another. The warm glow of the headlamps engulfed them, offering a fleeting sense of safety, but the fear in their eyes remained.

Y/N stood just outside, her body trembling, every muscle screaming at her to board. Her hand gripped the metal railing so tightly her knuckles shone white against the rain-slick surface. The storm pelted her relentlessly, its cold bite barely registering against the heat of her adrenaline.

“Captain,” Namjoon called softly, urgency threading through his tone. “Come aboard. Please.”

But Y/N didn’t move. Her eyes scanned the ink-black night, searching for any sign of life—or death. She couldn’t abandon him. Not like this.

Then it came: a sound that turned her blood to ice. A terrible, gut-wrenching cacophony of screams—human and beast, interwoven into a symphony of violence.

Jungkook.

Her instincts overtook her. Without hesitation, she yanked the glow-worm bottle from Namjoon’s neck and plunged into the darkness, ignoring his frantic shouts behind her.

“Y/N! Don’t! Frenchie!”

The glow-worms threw shaky halos of light as Y/N sprinted through the downpour, breath tearing from her lungs in ragged bursts. Rain sheeted down, soaking her to the bone, blurring her vision until the trees became shadows and shadows became monsters. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t slow. She couldn’t. Somewhere ahead, someone was screaming. Screaming like they were being ripped apart.

Her boots hit the mud with heavy slaps, slipping and catching, slipping again. Her heartbeat was a thunderclap in her ears, almost drowning out the storm. Almost. Because the sounds ahead were louder now—sharp, inhuman, brutal. Screeches. Something tearing. Something dying.

She burst into the clearing like a bullet through fog, and the scene hit her like a punch to the gut.

The glow-worms gave off just enough light to illuminate the horror: a chaos of blood and shadow and steel.

Jungkook was on his knees, soaked and wild-eyed, his chest rising and falling like he’d been running for days. He was swinging something—a metal bar, maybe? A broken pipe? —at the circling predators that slithered in and out of the gloom, slick limbs glinting with rain and blood. They were fast, terrifyingly coordinated, like some nightmarish ballet. Shadows slicing through shadows, all limbs and blades and hunger.

Blood streaked his face. Some of it his. Some of it not. He looked like something carved from war.

One of the things—taller than the rest, limbs bending wrong—peeled off from the pack and lunged at her.

Y/N barely had time to register it. Just instinct. She dropped like a stone, hitting the ground hard as the creature’s blade of a limb whistled past her skull, close enough to feel the wind of it. She hit the mud face-first, the impact jarring, cold and wet and full of blood.

Her own, maybe. She didn’t care.

“It’s me! It’s me!” she screamed, scrambling forward on hands and knees. “Jungkook, it’s me!”

He turned toward her like he’d been yanked on a string, and for a second—a single, gut-twisting second—his eyes didn’t recognize her. They were wide, haunted, raw.

Not scared of the monsters. Jungkook had never been afraid to die.

No, this was something else.

This was the look of a man afraid he was about to lose everything.

The second they were close enough, Y/N threw herself into his arms. No plan. No hesitation. She just collapsed into him, wrapped her arms tight around his sides and buried her face in his chest.

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. All the strength she’d been clutching onto shattered.

She sobbed like something inside her had cracked open. Big, shaking, gasping sobs. The kind you don’t come back from right away.

She cried for Bindi and Daku. For Peter and Namjoon’s boys.

For Leo. For Namjoon.

Even for Lee. Poor, broken, strung-out Lee, who’d never stood a chance.

And she cried—for Shields.

Shields, who she hated. Who had died screaming. Shields, who’d put himself between the crew and death anyway.

“It’s not fair,” she moaned against Jungkook’s chest, her voice raw and small and lost.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t know what to say.

This wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he was good at. Women didn’t throw themselves at him—not like this. Not with tears and shaking hands. Not with trust.

But he didn’t push her away.

Instead, slowly, he dropped his hands from where they’d hovered, unsure, and pulled her close. Wrapped those strong arms around her like they were made for this.

There were no chains this time.

Oh, Frenchie.

She fit.

That was the weirdest part. She fit. Her body curved into his like it belonged there. Her head rested right beneath his chin, snug and natural. He wasn’t thinking about anything stupid—he wasn’t even thinking. He was just there, holding her.

And maybe that was enough.

Y/N’s sobs faded into quiet crying, just small sniffles now, her breath still hiccupping as she tried to pull herself back together.

She didn’t want to look at him.

Didn’t want him to see how far she’d fallen apart.

Didn’t want to see what he saw when he looked at her.

But she remembered—how safe she’d felt back on the skiff, when he’d held her waist to help her up. It hadn’t made sense then, but it hadn’t needed to. That pull toward him had been strange and terrifyingly familiar.

There was something about Jungkook. Always had been.

Now, in the dim glow from the bottle between them, the light from the glow-worms casting strange shadows on their faces, she let herself feel it.

The rain was still pouring, thick and relentless.

The planet was still dead.

But for a moment, it didn’t feel like it.

They pulled away at the same time, like something unspoken had passed between them. Just a few seconds of an embrace—but it had stretched out, slow and meaningful.

Y/N wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, sniffling hard, avoiding his eyes. The embarrassment kicked in like a reflex. God, what was she doing breaking down like that?

But Jungkook didn’t mock her. Didn’t smirk. He was just watching her, face soft in a way she hadn’t seen before.

“Where’s the kid?” he asked, voice hoarse. “The holy man?”

And then his knees buckled.

Y/N barely caught him.

For the first time since the crash, Jungkook had fallen—and not because of anything trying to kill him. Just because his body had finally had enough.

She bent down, her hands fumbling, trembling. Found the bottle she’d dropped earlier and cradled it like it held the last light in the universe.

“The skiff,” she said, sliding to her knees next to him. She looped the bottle around his neck, the soft glow painting shadows across his bloodied skin. “Come on.”

Her voice cracked. But she kept going.

“We’re not dying here. Not today.”

Jungkook swayed, eyes fluttering like he was on the edge of giving up. For a second, she really thought he was going to. That his body had finally surrendered.

But then his jaw clenched. He gritted his teeth. Forced himself up, inch by inch, like a man rising from a grave.

She threw his arm around her shoulders, and they leaned on each other like two halves of something broken trying to walk in one piece.

“Just keep moving,” Y/N whispered, dragging in air like glass. “Ten steps. That’s all we need. Ten steps, Jungkook. We can do this.”

Maybe the words were for him. Maybe they were for her.

Didn’t matter. She needed them said.

“Nine steps. Almost there. Eight. Don’t look back. Don’t stop.”

The predators were screaming again behind them. Clicking, snarling, hunting. That terrible, guttural chorus rising like a stormcloud chasing them down.

Y/N’s legs felt like they were full of molten lead. Her back ached, her lungs felt carved out, her vision was doing that scary fuzzy thing at the edges—but she didn’t stop.

Jungkook was heavy. But he was moving.

They kept going, leaning hard into each other.

And then it happened.

That sound.

Sharp and wet and awful—like the world itself had split open. It sliced through the thick, rain-heavy air, and it didn’t belong. It wasn’t natural, didn’t come from the wind or the storm or the things hunting in the dark. It was something wrong.

And then came the impact.

A brutal hit, all force and chaos, like a freight hauler slamming into their backs. One second they were standing, barely upright, the next they were airborne—flung apart like rag dolls. Y/N hit the ground first, and it hurt.

Hard.

The breath exploded out of her lungs in a raw, useless gasp. Her spine jarred. Her head snapped back. Everything inside her rattled like she’d cracked open. The glow-worm bottle slipped from her hand, rolled into the muck, and kept rolling, casting a dim, sickly light across the slick, churning dirt.

Then the silence came.

That eerie, wrong silence. Like the world had hit pause. The rain kept falling, but she couldn’t hear it. The creatures in the distance—silent. Her own heartbeat—gone, or maybe just buried too deep beneath the throb of pain. It was a silence that swallowed sound, and breath, and hope.

Y/N blinked hard, tried to push herself up, but her body didn’t want to move. Her hands trembled as they sank into the cold, wet earth. She felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out of her while she wasn’t looking.

Something was wrong.

Something terribly wrong.

And then the pain bloomed.

It didn’t creep in. It ripped through her.

A white-hot bolt of agony erupted in her side, sharp and blinding, and her scream caught in her throat like it didn’t know how to get out. Her eyes shot down, and for a moment—just one split second—she didn’t understand what she was seeing.

Then her mind caught up.

Something was inside her.

A grotesque, jagged limb jutted out from her side—bone, but not. It looked like bone filtered through a nightmare. Shiny and twisted, flecked with blood, slick with her own warmth.

It had punched through her.

Panic surged, all cold and frantic. Her thoughts fractured, scattered like broken glass. She tried to scream but managed only a strangled sob. Her body trembled beneath the weight of shock.

"Not for me," Jungkook’s voice cut through the haze. Hoarse. Raw. He was there suddenly, hands grabbing her, pulling her in.

His grip was strong, but his voice—there was something behind it. Something thin and cracking.

Fear.

Not for himself. For her.

She clung to him with what little strength she had left, her fingers clawing at his shirt, trying to hold on to something real. Her vision swam, dark at the edges, and everything was slipping. Her breath rattled in her chest like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

She wanted to fight. She wanted to. But it was too fast. Too much.

The light faded from her eyes as she collapsed against him. No scream. No last word. Just gone.

Y/N disappeared into the quiet.

The stillness was complete.

For one breath, two, maybe three, the entire world seemed to hold itself still. Then came the scream—not hers, but his.

Jungkook’s voice tore into the silence like a blade, raw and violent and desperate. It echoed off the trees, off the dirt, into the stars.

He laid her down like something sacred, but his hands were shaking. He didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t built for this—this kind of loss. Not her.

Never her.

Then the creatures were on him.

The snarl of a hunter cut through the silence behind him, and without thinking, he spun. Rage rose, unfiltered and unchecked. The first one lunged—fast, too fast—but Jungkook was faster.

His hand gripped the jagged metal pipe he’d dropped earlier, and he swung hard, driving it straight into the creature’s throat. There was a sickening crunch, a gurgling shriek, and it collapsed.

Another came from the side—he ducked low, rolled through the mud, came up swinging. The edge of the pipe caught the creature across the head, split it open with a wet crack.

They came fast after that.

Three more. Maybe four. Didn’t matter.

Jungkook moved like a storm, all fury and instinct. The pipe became an extension of his rage—jabbing, swinging, breaking bones, snapping limbs. He didn’t stop. Didn’t feel. Not the blood on his hands or the pain in his muscles or the ache blooming in his ribs.

One of them got close enough to rake a claw across his back. He roared, spun, drove the pipe through its chest so hard it got stuck. He let it go and pulled a blade from the body of another, used that instead.

When the last one fell, the clearing went still again.

Bodies twitched and bled into the mud.

Jungkook stood there for a long second, soaked in rain and blood, panting like a wild animal. The bodies of the creatures lay broken around him, steam rising from their carcasses in the cold night air. His chest heaved, every breath like fire in his throat. His hands—still clenched, still ready to kill—dripped red.

Then he turned.

And everything inside him stopped.

Y/N was gone.

The spot where she'd fallen, where he'd held her, where her blood had soaked into the earth—empty. No body. No trace. Just the flickering glow-worm bottle, cracked and sputtering out in the mud, casting its weak light over churned dirt and drag marks vanishing into the trees.

“No...” The word came out hoarse, broken. His eyes darted wildly into the shadows, scanning the treeline, searching for any movement, any sound—anything that might tell him this wasn’t real. That she wasn’t really gone. That maybe he’d just turned away for too long.

But he knew better. He felt it.

They had taken her.

He let out a sound—somewhere between a growl and a sob—and took off.

Back toward the skiff. Back through the dark.

The storm screamed around him, but he didn’t slow. His boots pounded the ground in a wild rhythm, slipping in the mud, crashing through low-hanging branches. He could still feel the warmth of her blood on his arms, still see her eyes fading into that terrible stillness.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel. There was only forward.

The skiff. That was all that mattered now.

The rain blurred everything—trees, ground, sky—it all became one frantic smear of motion and noise. He didn’t know if he was screaming or just breathing too loud. Didn’t care.

When the ship finally broke through the clouds, it looked like both salvation and ruin.

The hull groaned under the strain of re-entry, its scorched wings catching fire as it tore through the atmosphere—like dying stars burning out in silence. It wasn’t built for this kind of flight. The skiff was a fragile thing, pieced together with desperation and whatever scraps were left behind. But it was all he had. It was all that remained.

Jungkook dropped into the pilot’s seat, muscles barely cooperating, every breath heavy with exhaustion. Blood slid down his back where one of the creatures had caught him—he didn’t remember when. Time had blurred into one long moment of loss and survival.

His hands found the controls automatically, guided by muscle memory. But they felt wrong. As if they belonged to someone else now. Someone untouched by grief. Someone who hadn’t just watched the last good thing in their life vanish into darkness.

His fingers drifted across the console, leaving a streak of blood. Not his.

Hers.

He didn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he stared at it—longer than he should have—jaw locked so tight it sent pain shooting up to his temples.

The nav screen flickered to life: Sol-Track 17B. The route was plotted. The destination didn’t matter. Not anymore. What mattered was the hollow space inside his chest. That aching, consuming absence.

Beside him, Leo sat motionless. A shadow of herself. Her eyes fixed on the stars like she was trying to fall into them, or maybe disappear altogether. The silence between them was unbearable. Heavy. Too real.

Jungkook was the one who finally broke it.

“You can talk to me now,” he said, voice cracked and raw, scraped from somewhere deep inside.

Leo didn’t respond right away. She stayed quiet, gaze lost in the black. When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know where to go,” she said. The words landed with weight, not just confusion but something deeper. “I was just running when this all started. Running from everything.”

She paused, fingers fidgeting against the worn edge of her seat. Then, softer, “Where are you going?”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. Because he didn’t know. Maybe he never had.

“Nowhere,” he said finally, barely audible above the low hum of the engines. “I was just… running too.”

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t even an answer. But it was true. And in that moment, it was enough. Two people drifting, directionless, bound only by shared loss and silence. And somewhere in the middle of that quiet, they seemed to understand each other.

Neither had answers. Neither had safety. Only this—this ship, this moment, this space between everything they’d lost and whatever came next.

The skiff shifted course slightly, engines humming steady. Outside, the stars seemed to move with them, like the universe was shifting, realigning itself. A single bright star emerged in the darkness, clear and sharp.

Jungkook stared at it, something tightening in his chest.

“Might be worth seeing,” he said under his breath. He didn’t mean to say it aloud. It just… slipped out.

From the back, Namjoon stepped into view. Quiet. Grounded. The kind of calm that didn’t ask questions. His gaze landed on the same star, and something passed over his face—something soft, reverent.

“New Mecca,” he said, almost a whisper. As if the name itself held meaning. As if it carried hope.

Jungkook turned to look at him, unreadable. But when he spoke again, his voice held something between skepticism and longing.

“Think a soul could get lost there?” he asked. “In a place like that? Surrounded by people chasing something they’ll never catch?”

Namjoon didn’t blink. “It’s more the kind of place where souls are found,” he said simply. “Not lost.”

Jungkook said nothing, eyes drifting back to the star. He didn’t know if he believed it. He wasn’t sure if he could believe anything anymore.

The silence held, stretched taut over the hum of the skiff.

Leo shifted in her seat. Still staring at the void, but her voice cut through it.

“What do we tell them?” she asked. “When we land. About you.”

Jungkook didn’t turn. He kept his eyes forward, face unreadable.

“Tell ’em I died on that rock.”

Leo looked over at him, brow drawn. “You serious?”

He finally glanced her way—just a flicker of a look. Cold. Tired. Certain.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t push it. Just nodded, slowly. “Alright.”

Namjoon stood in the back, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’d been listening the whole time. His voice came low.

“Cleanest lie we’ve got.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved—barely. Not a smile. Not even close. But something like it.

“Let the dead man take the blame,” he said. “Might keep you all safer.”

No one argued.

Leo settled back into her seat, letting the weight of everything sink into her bones. Namjoon moved to the co-pilot’s chair and keyed in the final approach vector. The skiff adjusted, smooth and quiet.

They didn’t speak again.

The light from the nearby star started to spill across the dash, casting long shadows inside the cockpit. The scorched metal of the skiff caught the glow, gleaming faintly—wreckage limping its way toward something that might, on a generous day, be called hope.

Jungkook leaned into his seat, staring at that one bright point in the dark. A place with temples and pilgrims. A place where people went to be saved.

Didn’t matter.

He’d done what he had to. Got them off that planet. Got them through.

That was enough.

Behind him, the planet shrank into nothing—just another dead world in a galaxy full of them.

And in front of him, New Mecca waited.

Not for him.

Just for the story of him.

Let them believe the killer died down there. Let them believe the monster went down with the dark.

It was better that way.

The skiff surged forward, engines low and steady. And somewhere behind the silence, behind the metal, behind the blood and ash and fire...

A man who wasn’t supposed to survive lived on anyway.

Chapter 5: Dark Fury

In the center of the New Oslo Space Administration, a hall that once buzzed with celebration now sat heavy with silence. The walls, scrubbed to a relentless white, gleamed under the clinical glare of overhead lights—so clean it was almost aggressive, as if any trace of real life had been wiped out long ago. Above, thin panels of recessed lighting poured down a harsh, surgical brightness that flattened every edge and erased every shadow. Comfort had never been part of the blueprint.

The ceiling stretched high overhead, a lattice of glass-smooth alloy and layered panels, packed with pale, cold lights that made everything below look stark and brittle. What used to be a press hall—a place where new orbital colonies were announced with champagne and handshakes—now buzzed faintly with a low, nervous current. Reporters filled the sharply angled rows of seating, sitting stiffly, their faces tight with the kind of apprehension that kept them quiet. No one dared to break the stillness. Only the distant whirr of surveillance drones and the faint, mechanical ticking from the timekeepers embedded in the walls stirred the air.

Beneath the sterile flood of artificial daylight, Yoongi Min stood alone.

He wasn’t exactly young anymore, but he wasn’t old either—caught in that quiet middle place carved out by years of navigating crises and silent, sleepless nights in war rooms. His stance was rigid, trained over decades to betray no fear. His hair was slicked back, the first hints of gray just beginning to thread at his temples. His face, pale in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone who had lived most of his life under the twin suns of Aguerra Prime, showed the fine beginnings of lines around his eyes and mouth.

In his hands, he held a red folder—simple, worn, almost inconspicuous. The spine sagged from too many openings; the corners were frayed, softened by time and handling. It looked like the kind of thing that might get overlooked in a place like this. It wasn’t.

When Yoongi finally spoke, the sound of his voice caught the room off guard. It wasn’t loud or commanding—just steady. Low. Controlled in a way that made you listen closer without meaning to. His S’s carried a faint rasp, like the tail-end of static on an old comms channel. There was something about it—like the voice of someone used to delivering bad news, and doing it carefully.

“At zero four thirty local standard,” he began, each word unhurried, shaped with a kind of quiet finality, “NOSA’s orbital tracking array picked up an object—a fast-moving meteor that crossed paths with the civilian transport Hunter-Gratzner, en route to New Mecca.”

The name dropped like a stone. Not just data. Not just a ship. That name meant something.

The Hunter-Gratzner had been missing for over a month. People stopped saying it out loud after the first few days—just whispered it in prayers or on old signal boards, hoping for something. Anything. It wasn’t just a transport. It was families. Workers. Students. It was a hundred hopes wrapped in one hull, gone silent.

“The impact disabled its navigational systems,” Yoongi continued. “The vessel lost control and crash-landed on an uninhabited planet. Designation: M6-117.”

He paused—not for drama, but because the truth needed air.

Then, quieter, “Hades.”

That name, too, wasn’t new. Every pilot had heard it, tucked in the corners of old space. A place that didn’t show up clearly on starcharts, like the universe itself was trying to forget it. Lost ships. Broken signals. A survey team that went dark three decades ago and never came back. Their names redacted, their logs buried.

Yoongi’s hands shifted slightly around the red folder.

“There were forty souls aboard,” he said. “Eight crew. Thirty-two passengers. Captain Theodore Marshall died on impact. The co-pilot, Y/N Y/L/N, took command. Navigator Gregory Shields initiated emergency protocol. He didn’t survive the first day.”

He read the names slowly. Like each one deserved to land.

Yoongi stood at the podium, shoulders square, the folder in his hands marked only by a NOSA emblem and an older classification tag that had been partially scratched out—CONFIDENTIAL | LEVEL FOUR.

He flipped it open again, even though the pages weren’t necessary anymore. He knew the story by heart.

“There’s evidence the ship’s trajectory wasn’t an accident,” he said, tone sharpening—not louder, but with precision. “Navigator Gregory Shields manually altered course before entering cryo-stasis. There were no backup checks. No secondary alerts. The system didn’t flag the reroute because the flightpath remained mathematically valid... just deadly.”

He looked out across the press chamber.

“We believe he was paid. And a bounty hunter was onboard.”

The air shifted. Shoulders tensed. It wasn’t dramatic, just quiet—sharp-eyed people registering new gravity.

“The hunter’s target,” Yoongi said, “was Jungkook Jeon.”

The room went still. That name didn’t need context, but it carried weight just the same. Jeon had lived at the edge of myth—once a Strikeforce Ranger, elite beyond measure, then a traitor during the Sigma Uprising, blamed for the assassination of his own commanding officer. Disappeared after the Outer Rim collapsed. His name was a ghost story whispered in mercenary camps and prison transports.

“Jeon was aboard as a prisoner,” Yoongi continued. “Chained. Under heavy sedation. Transported under warrant for extraction.”

A voice from the right side of the room: “So this wasn’t just a transport. This was a bounty run disguised as a civilian haul?”

“Yes,” Yoongi confirmed. “The civilian manifest was real. The bounty was embedded—intentionally quiet. Shields altered the route, likely paid directly. We believe the plan was to bring the ship out of NOSA-controlled lanes, into a no-response corridor. Clean handoff. Simple extraction.”

He let a beat pass. “It wasn’t simple.”

A woman in the second row stood halfway. “And this was all done with no oversight? No NOSA fail-safes?”

Yoongi nodded once. “Shields had access and authority. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent—just a course change during the stasis window. But the route intersected with a meteor cluster. The ship was struck. The shielding failed. They went down on M6-117.”

He flipped a page in the folder—not for show, just rhythm. Anchoring.

“M6-117 has three suns. A tri-helix orbit. For most of its cycle, the surface stays in daylight—years of sun. Harsh terrain. Deep ravines. But once every twenty-two Earth months, the planetary orbit aligns with its moon cluster.”

A larger screen behind him flickered to life, showing orbital diagrams, eclipse projections.

“The result,” Yoongi said, “is full eclipse. No starlight. No planetary glow. Just pitch black.”

He paused. Not long—just enough to make space for what came next.

“And when the dark comes... something else comes with it.”

Front row, an older reporter with deep orbital tattoos leaned in. “You’re confirming... that this wasn’t just an ecological anomaly?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “This wasn’t weather. It wasn’t terrain. Thirty years ago, a NOSA survey team landed on M6-117. Their transmissions lasted just under forty hours. Fragments only—distorted visuals, audio clips of movement in the dark, what sounded like screams echoing in underground tunnels. Then... silence. Mission loss was recorded as environmental failure. But those files were quietly buried.”

The screen behind him showed a grainy image—a partial silhouette of something hunched and clawed. The timestamp was thirty-two years old.

“We now know the cause was biological. Subterranean predators. Nocturnal. Carnivorous. Hyper-aggressive. We call them Bioraptors.”

A reporter near the back—one of the offworlders—asked, “Why didn’t NOSA return?”

Yoongi was quiet for a moment.

“We didn’t want to believe what we saw. The risk was too high. And honestly... no one thought anyone would land there again.”

Another voice: “The survivors didn’t know, did they?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “They had no idea.”

He shifted, the story finally ready to unfold in full.

“After the crash, Co-pilot Y/N Y/L/N assumed command. Captain Marshall died on impact. Shields was killed within hours—exact cause unknown. Y/L/N organized what remained of the crew and passengers: two Earth prospectors, a relics dealer, the bounty hunter, a child, a holy man, his missionaries—and Jeon.”

That name again.

“Jeon was restrained at first. But Y/N fought for his release. Not out of trust—but survival. They were exposed. No food. No comms. They needed every capable hand.”

“Did he help?” someone asked bluntly.

Yoongi met their gaze. “Yes. He saved lives.”

The screen now displayed a map of their path across the surface—miles on foot. Some terrain shown in red: areas later confirmed to house tunnel openings.

“They moved at day. Hunted parts from old wrecks. Found a barely functional skiff, hidden in the ravine. Y/N and one of the prospectors—Bindi Ariki—repaired it using power cells pulled from a derelict mining rig. They had a window. One hour before total darkness.”

He breathed.

“Four made it: Y/N, Jeon, the child, the holy man. Bioraptors were already emerging, and took out the others as they made the long trek to the other wrecksite. Y/N secured the child and the holy man on the shuttle. She went back for Jeon.”

Another long pause.

“They almost made it.”

Now the room was hushed. Every note of Yoongi’s voice landed like weight on a scale.

“She carried him. He’d taken a strike defending the others. But just before they reached the light—the Bioraptors took her.”

A reporter whispered, “Her body?”

“Never recovered,” Yoongi said. “But her story didn’t end there.”

He opened a final section of the folder.

“The shuttle was captured in orbit by a mercenary vessel. We believe they were hired to reclaim Jeon. All three passengers were taken. But Jeon turned the ambush. Freed the other two. Killed the crew. He died from wounds sustained during the escape.”

There was a silence then—not empty, but full of something impossible to name.

“The shuttle landed at New Mecca eleven standard days later. The child and the holy man survived. And they told us everything.”

Yoongi closed the folder one last time.

“Co-pilot Y/N Y/L/N perished on M6-117. She will be remembered—for her leadership. Her strength. And the future she gave others a chance to reach.”

Another hand went up. This time cautious. “Do you believe this was preventable?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I believe the people who lived owe everything to the people who didn’t. And I believe if NOSA had listened to its own lost team thirty years ago… maybe this planet would’ve stayed off our charts. Maybe a course reroute would’ve raised a flag. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.”

A few seconds passed.

“But if someone had to fall... there’s no one else we would’ve trusted to lead them in the dark.”

He stepped back from the podium.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

One Week Earlier

Jungkook leaned against the edge of the pilot’s console, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on the stars slipping past the viewport. The slow drift of space didn’t calm him—if anything, it made the silence feel heavier. Like the galaxy was holding its breath.

Namjoon stood nearby, quiet now, whatever he’d needed to say already out there between them. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low. Not ceremonial, not polished. Just quiet. Honest.

“It’s sad,” he said, not taking his eyes off the void. “Leaving her down there like that. Her family’s never gonna get anything. No closure. No funeral. Just silence.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and tired.

“She deserved better.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened, and he stayed focused on the stars like they might give him something back. They didn’t.

Namjoon gave a small nod, more to himself than anyone else, and let his hand rest lightly on the edge of the console. Then he turned and walked off, the soft hiss of the door sealing behind him.

Jungkook stayed.

The hum of the ship was the only sound now—low and steady, mechanical breathing. After a while, he pushed off the console and moved down the corridor, his boots barely making a sound against the metal. The ship always felt bigger at night. Too much space. Too few people.

He passed by the small berth where Leo slept. The girl had been having nightmares again—loud ones. Screaming in her sleep, scratching at the sheets. The kind of fear that didn’t care whether you were awake or not. He paused outside the door. Thought about checking in. He’d do it later. Make sure she hadn’t clawed herself bloody again.

He kept walking, but his mind didn’t come with him.

Frenchie, that’s what she called herself. The nickname came out of nowhere, like she didn’t think twice about it. He never asked why. Figured he’d get the story eventually—when things slowed down, when they weren’t fighting for air or light. He didn’t think there wouldn’t be time.

They’d known each other for what, a day? Maybe a little more, if you counted the way time stretched and bled on that planet. One day. That was it. But it didn’t matter. That day carved her into him deeper than most people did in a lifetime.

By the time he reached his quarters, the lights were already dim. He didn’t turn them up. Just slid onto the narrow cot, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to hold onto. It didn’t.

She was still with him. Not her face exactly—faces fade. It was the shape of her, the presence. That feeling she left in the room, even when she wasn’t in it. The way she looked at him—direct, unafraid, like she saw something in him worth dragging back into the light.

He let out a breath. Short. Almost a laugh. Almost.

If she could see him now, wherever the hell dead people end up, she’d probably have that crooked little smirk on her face. The one she wore right before she’d crack a joke or kick someone’s ass just to make a point.

Look what I did to you, Jungkook. You’re not such a complete bastard after all.

He almost smiled at the thought. Almost.

He loved that mouth of hers. Sharp as hell. Didn't let anything slide. Not even him.

But the truth didn’t care about charm. The truth was colder.

Memories don’t die. They just stay there, quiet and heavy. Reminders.

And she was wrong. He hadn’t changed. Not in any real way. Maybe she’d made him hesitate. Maybe she’d made him hope. But it didn’t last. It couldn’t.

If she’d survived… if they’d somehow made it off that rock together… he would’ve ruined it. Ruined her. Not because he wanted to. Just because that’s what he did. She got too close. Made him forget for a second who he was, what he was built for. Made him wonder about things that had no business existing in his world.

And that kind of thing? That was dangerous.

She’d looked at him like there was something human still buried in there. And she believed in it. Believed in him.

He could still hear her voice—soft, steady, maybe even a little sad when she said it: “There’s got to be some part of you that wants to rejoin the human race.”

She meant it. God help her, she really thought he could come back from wherever he’d gone.

And that scared the shit out of him more than anything with claws or teeth.

She thought he stayed with the group—her, Leo, Namjoon—because of her. Because she pulled him back. Maybe she had. Maybe that was the worst part.

But he told himself it was smart. Tactical. Safety in numbers. Better odds if help came. And if help didn’t come? He’d outlast them. He always did.

That’s what he told himself.

Then Leo had looked up at him, covered in ash and sweat and blood, and said “Never had a doubt.”

And he’d believed it. She trusted him. Just like Y/N had.

And Y/N… she’d protected him. Lied for him. Not to save herself, not even to keep the peace. She did it because she thought he deserved a chance.

No one had ever done that for him.

And now she was gone.

And all the things he didn’t say—couldn’t say—pressed down on his chest like a second gravity.

He didn’t save her.

Didn’t even try. He froze. Watched it happen. Watched her turn around for him.

And now he didn’t know how to feel.

He hated her for it. For being that stupid. For believing in something that wasn’t there.

But he loved her for it too.

And that tore him up worse than any wound.

Lying there in the dark, the hum of the ship in his ears, he realized he didn’t even know what he was supposed to feel. Grief? Guilt? Rage? All of it? None of it?

She died going back for him.

And he couldn’t find one single reason why she would.

Not for him.

Not for what he was.

He turned onto his side, the cot creaking beneath him, the thin blanket cool against his skin.

It had only been three days since they left the planet.

Three days.

And already, he thought about her more with each one. Her face getting clearer the further he got from where she died.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The alarm wasn’t just loud—it felt alive. It screamed through the skiff like it was trying to claw its way out of the metal, shrill and unrelenting, bouncing down the narrow corridor walls until it became part of your blood pressure. Red strobes pulsed overhead, flooding the cockpit in waves of crimson that hit the eyes like a warning flare. The light moved like a heartbeat—fast, panicked, dying.

The control panel was a mess. Warnings stacked on warnings, lights blinking out of sync, system failures cascading like dominos. Every button screamed for attention. The nav screen had gone from glitchy to almost useless, flashing garbled data in sickly orange script.

“Hull breach contained. Engines operating at 170 percent capacity,” the onboard AI reported, clinical as ever.

The ship didn’t care if they made it.

Jungkook moved fast, but there was no panic in his hands—just speed. Muscle memory. Focus. His jaw was set tight beneath his goggles, sweat stinging his eyes, but his fingers never fumbled. They flew across the console, rerouting power from places that didn’t have any left to give.

The ship was failing. He could feel it in the floor—each tremble under his boots more desperate than the last. The whole frame groaned like it was holding its breath, like it knew it wasn’t going to make it.

Behind him, Leo sat stiff in the co-pilot’s chair. Her knees were pulled up slightly, boots braced against the bulkhead like she was trying to ground herself in something. Her patched-up jumpsuit hung loose on her, and she looked even smaller in the red light. Quiet, but not calm. Her lips were pressed in a hard line, but her eyes were wide—too wide. She wasn’t looking at the controls anymore. She was watching Jungkook.

On the other side, Namjoon was still. His hands worked slowly over a string of worn prayer beads. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Just the rhythm of his lips—like maybe if he kept going, the ship wouldn’t tear apart around them.

“Engine and hull failure imminent under current parameters,” the computer said, calm and cold.

The skiff jolted. Hard.

Metal screamed. Panels rattled. Jungkook slammed his hand out to steady himself, then shoved another lever forward with too much force. The ship groaned louder in protest.

Outside the cockpit, the Trinidad filled the viewport. Big. Beautiful. Terrifying. A cruiser built like a cathedral—sharp lines, gold-trimmed plating, gunmetal veins running beneath polished armor. It wasn’t flying so much as lurking, and the tether line pulling them toward it felt more like a noose than a rescue.

The cable had them. They were being dragged—no propulsion, no fight left in the engine. Just a dead weight being reeled into the belly of something much bigger.

Leo leaned forward, voice low, bitter. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Jungkook didn’t look up. No point. No time. Bad feelings didn’t change trajectory.

He didn’t speak.

The cockpit dimmed. Systems started dying one by one. Screens faded. The noise dropped away like someone had turned down the volume on the whole universe. The engine gave one last wheeze of heat, and then—nothing.

The ship went still.

Jungkook exhaled and sat back, his body finally catching up to the silence. His goggles reflected the last flicker from the dash, one final blink before darkness took over.

He turned his head just slightly. Looked at Leo.

“First you’re a boy, then a girl, now a psychic,” he said, voice dry. “Careful what you wish for.”

Leo let out a shaky breath. Could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been panic. Hard to tell.

Before she could answer, a voice cracked over the comms.

“Unidentified craft. State your purpose and contents.”

The three of them froze.

Namjoon’s fingers stopped on the beads. Leo’s expression snapped back to blank. Jungkook’s hands hovered over the dead controls.

Out the viewport, the Trinidad opened up. Massive bay doors unfurled with precision, the glow of internal lights spilling out like a halo around a mouth too wide. Inside, the crew moved with calm efficiency—figures in white uniforms, their faces obscured by interface helmets. Augmented reality panels glowed across their armor, data syncing in real-time as they prepared to receive… whatever they thought this was.

And at the center of it all stood Typhon.

Tall. Pale. Designed, not grown. His boots echoed as he walked across the command deck, each step deliberate. No wasted motion. He didn’t need to raise his voice—when he spoke again, the ship seemed to carry it.

“Unidentified craft, state your purpose and contents.”

Jungkook’s voice came through on comms, flat and casual. “Name’s Lee. Just a hauler. Ship blew on a short run. Got two civvies onboard. No cargo. Nothing worth selling.”

There was a pause. Then the faint sound of data being pulled, processed. A technician tilted their head. Something blinked red on their visor.

The bounty came up.

1,126,000 UD. Dead or alive.

Typhon smiled. Just a little. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well then, Mr. Lee,” he said, “what brings you this far out? Not much out here but dust and wreckage.”

Jungkook didn’t skip a beat. “Bounty hunter. Got turned around. Fuel cell blew. Nothing noble.”

Typhon tilted his head. “Looks like we’re in the same business.”

Up on a raised platform at the rear of the deck, a woman sat—motionless, veiled in white, her face hidden beneath layers of fabric that shimmered like glass. She made no sound. Just watched. And then, slowly, she nodded once.

Typhon didn’t hesitate.

“Bring them in.”

The cable pulled tight with a mechanical groan. The skiff jerked slightly as the slack disappeared, and then it began the slow crawl forward, dragged through space like a hooked fish.

Leo stared out the viewport, eyes fixed on the massive bulk of the Trinidad ahead. The cruiser’s hangar doors were yawning open now, gaping like some metal beast waiting to feed.

“They’re reeling us in,” she said, voice flat, thin.

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just kept one hand on the side panel, steadying himself as the ship was drawn into the docking bay.

The Trinidad swallowed the skiff whole.

A dull thud echoed through the hull as the landing clamps hit. There was a brief hiss—pressure equalizing. Then another thud. Heavier. Final. The bay doors slammed shut behind them with a clang that reverberated down the frame like a coffin being sealed.

“Ship is secure in Bay 3.”
The voice from overhead was automated, clipped. No warmth. No welcome.

Silence followed. Not peaceful—oppressive. A kind of silence that felt earned. Like something had died in it.

Jungkook struck a match.

The flame caught fast, flickering orange in the dim cockpit. For a second, it lit his face—sweat-slick, focused, jaw tight. Then he touched it to the tip of a handheld torch and let it roar to life.

He dropped to a knee near the bulkhead panel and pressed the flame to the ship’s internal fire sensor. The heat would fry the scanner for just long enough—muddle the data, scramble the signatures. One last trick before the curtain went up.

Namjoon leaned forward, watching. “That’s… clever.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He wasn’t doing this for points. It was the kind of thing you did when you didn’t plan to get caught—and definitely didn’t plan to explain yourself.

Leo glanced toward him, uncertainty in her voice now. “You think that’s gonna work? That it’ll be enough?”

Still no answer.

The torch hissed, spitting heat. A few more seconds. The sensor casing blackened and warped.

Jungkook muttered, just loud enough to cut through the quiet:
“Hold your breath.”

Across the hangar, in the Trinidad’s command deck, the mood was sterile and sharp. The lighting was low, just enough to make the glowing data walls pop. Readouts flowed along the arc of the room—everything from structural scans to environmental profiles to biometrics.

The skiff showed up on every screen. Docked. Vulnerable. Slowly being dissected line by line by the ship’s scanners.

Typhon stood dead center in the room. Tall. Unshaken. He didn’t fidget, didn’t shift his weight. His voice didn’t rise unless there was a reason.

“Report.”

One word. That was enough.

Freddy, perched at the main terminal, squinted at the data. “Two adult signatures. Weak. Third… not consistent. Could be residual heat. Could be a juvenile. Or…” He hesitated. “Could just be engine wash.”

Typhon didn’t even blink. “Find out.”

Back in the skiff, the torch died. Jungkook closed the panel. Leo was sitting stiff, shoulders drawn in tight, breathing shallow. Her arms were wrapped across her chest, her fingers dug into the sleeves of her jumpsuit. Namjoon whispered a prayer, low and steady—maybe for them. Maybe for whoever walked through that hatch first.

On the bridge, Freddy frowned.

“Running a tighter sweep… wait.”

Typhon didn’t move, but the air changed around him. “What is it.”

Freddy blinked hard, tapping the screen. “They’re gone.”

“Gone,” Typhon repeated.

Freddy nodded, still staring at the monitor. “All three heat signatures just… vanished. Like they were never there.”

Typhon’s jaw shifted. Just once. No emotion. Just recalibration.

“Full breach protocol,” he said. “Prep the team.”

Far below deck, a low alarm chimed. A hatch slammed open. Boots hit steel in tight, rhythmic strides. A dozen mercenaries—lean, geared, practiced—moved fast down the corridor. Armor plates clicked into place. Mag-locks on their boots sparked and sealed.

Typhon moved with them, pacing like a man walking into a boardroom, not a breach op. At the hangar, two sentries were already posted.

The first—Gunner—leaned casually against the wall, cigarette tucked behind his ear. His armor was scratched up, half-unzipped, a permanent smirk carved into his face.

The second was all silence. A woman with a close-cut buzz, a black eye-patch, and an expression that didn’t change for anything.

Typhon stopped between them. “Anything?”

Gunner shrugged. “I locked it myself. No motion. No breach. Atmosphere’s flatlined.”

Typhon stepped to the window. Looked out at the skiff—small, dented, still.

“Pressurize.”

The air hissed into the bay—slow at first, then building. It moved like a whisper, filling the room with a quiet, tense hum. A soft green light blinked to life on the outer seal.

“Green for breach,” Gunner said. “O2’s thin, but it’ll hold.”

Typhon stepped back and gave a single nod—sharp, economical.

The mercenaries moved in.

They advanced without a word, rifles up, line tight. Each step was practiced, precise. No wasted motion. One broke formation—a smaller guy in a sleek zero-G rig, fast and quiet. He bounded forward in low gravity, using the bay floor like a springboard. Three strong strides and he hit the side of the skiff, magnetized boots clamping on with a heavy clunk. He crawled across the hull like a spider, hugging the curvature of the wing, working fast toward the hatch.

No noise. Just the soft whir of his suit servos and the faint click of tools being unpacked.

A small puck-shaped device was placed over the hatch lock. It blinked once, then started spinning—a magnetic bypass tool, top-grade. He leaned back slightly, fingers flying over the interface.

Hiss.

The seal disengaged with a low pop.

And then everything went to hell.

The hatch blew outward with a concussive blast—a contained charge that wasn’t designed to destroy, but to stun. A wall of thick, white foam surged from the opening, dense and fast, coating everything in seconds. No sound—just pressure. Pure force in a vacuum.

Three mercs were knocked off their feet immediately. One slammed into a wall and stayed down. Two vanished into the mass—swallowed whole. The lockpicker was thrown clear, landing hard and skidding across the deck, foam trailing from his gear. He choked, clawing at his faceplate.

“What the hell is this?” he gasped. “Foam?”

Typhon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed, calculating.

“A trap.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t have to.

“Fall back. Now.”

Some obeyed. Some didn’t get the chance. The foam wasn’t ordinary. It writhed—chemically reactive, thickening by the second, dragging bodies into itself like a slow tidal wave. A merc screamed, muffled and short-lived, his voice dying under the weight of the compound.

Fire suppressant—repurposed. Smart. Brutal. Designed to suck the air out of lungs and silence screams before they started.

The remaining mercs at the perimeter held their ground, rifles aimed, scanning for movement. The bay lights stuttered once as backup systems kicked in.

Typhon didn’t move. He just watched.

“He has to breathe sometime,” he muttered.

And then he did.

Leo surfaced first, breaking through the foam with a sharp inhale, eyes wide, panicked. One of the mercs opened fire instantly. A tight burst. The rounds tore into the foam just as she ducked back under, disappearing in a churn of white.

Namjoon came up next—gasped, blinked, gone. Another burst of rounds shredded the air where he’d been.

Then silence.

Then chaos.

Jungkook burst from the foam like a goddamn missile—silent, fast, feral. He didn’t pause. Didn’t look. Just moved.

One merc went down before he even registered the threat—a crushed windpipe under a sharp elbow. The second tried to turn, but Jungkook disarmed him with a clean strike, spun the rifle in his hands, and used the butt to collapse the man’s throat.

A third stumbled backward. Jungkook kicked him square in the chest—sent him flying into a support beam. The crunch was loud even through sealed helmets.

He wasn’t fighting. He was erasing.

He vaulted to the ledge—two more waiting. He stripped a weapon from one, slammed it across the other's helmet, and pinned the second to the bulkhead with his forearm. The rifle in his other hand came up like a whisper.

From the foam, Leo reemerged, soaked and gasping, dragging a rifle with her.

She caught her breath just enough to shout, “That’s nothing, scarecrow! He’s gonna kick your—”

A round screamed past her head. She yelped, ducked, then was pulled under again by the shifting foam, her shout swallowed mid-word.

Typhon watched all of it from behind the glass. His lips curled, just slightly. Not amusement. Appreciation.

“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” he said over comms—voice calm, clear, cutting.

Jungkook didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up. Another merc lunged at him with a baton—Jungkook caught the swing mid-arc and drove a knee into the man’s ribs, then tossed him into the wall like a rag doll. The impact echoed through the bay.

Blood—small, floating spheres of it—drifted in the low gravity, glinting under the harsh lights like dark rubies.

But Typhon wasn’t watching the fight anymore.

His eyes had locked on Leo.

She’d dragged herself back up, coughing foam out of her lungs, just in time to see Typhon step forward. His boot slammed into her chest, dropping her hard. The air left her in a sharp grunt.

She gasped, arms raised, stunned but not broken.

Typhon leveled his pistol at her, one eye narrowed down the sight.

“Stay down.”

Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled. But she didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. There was something in the set of her jaw—a refusal to break, even when it made no sense.

Jungkook’s voice cut through, low and cold.

“Call off your lapdog.”

Typhon didn’t glance back. But his finger curled slightly on the trigger.

Jungkook stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He had one of the mercs pinned beneath his knee, a curved shiv at the man’s throat. The kind of weapon that wasn’t standard issue. The kind that had stories behind it.

“Before his trying to impress you gets him killed,” Jungkook said, eyes locked on Typhon.

For a second, everything held still.

The foam churned in lazy spirals across the bay, thick and clinging, full of bodies and blood that hadn’t yet settled. Rifles were up. Triggers hovered. No one moved. Not yet. The whole hangar was waiting—watching.

Jungkook didn’t flinch.

He stood in the middle of the wreckage like it belonged to him. Eyes forward, breath even. Hands still, but ready. Every inch of him was wound tight beneath the surface. A man born from this kind of chaos.

Above them, movement.

A figure stepped into the light overhead—graceful, deliberate. Like a performer walking onto a stage she already owned.

Loralai Youngblood.

Her robe was bone-white, trailing behind her in slow waves. It hung too clean for a place like this, almost religious in its softness. But as she moved, the fabric parted just enough to reveal a sleek, polished exo-frame beneath. Cybernetic. Expensive. More sculpted than engineered. A whisper of otherworldly tech that didn’t belong in a hangar full of mercs and corpses.

“Am I that easy to spot?” she asked, voice lilting, amused. “You make it sound like I enjoy the drama.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened as his gaze snapped to her. “Call it what you want. Just tell him to lower the damn weapon.”

Youngblood drifted closer, eyes skimming over the scene without concern. Her smile was polite, but thin—like something she wore out of habit, not emotion.

“You’ll have to forgive Typhon,” she said. “He gets ahead of himself sometimes. It's part of the job.” She looked down at the carnage like it was spilled coffee on her favorite rug. “Still. Can’t say I blame him.”

She met Jungkook’s eyes. “You have a reputation, Jungkook.”

He didn’t answer. She already knew he wouldn’t.

“Yes, Jungkook. I know your name. And more than just that,” she added, like she was letting him in on a secret.

His voice dropped. Gravel and warning. “Keep digging and you’ll find something sharp.”

Her laugh was soft. Almost kind. Almost.

“I’m not here to fight you. Not unless you make me.” She nodded to the foam-streaked floor. “But if it saves me another cleanup crew and a PR nightmare… I’d appreciate if you dropped the blade.”

Jungkook’s grip tightened just slightly. “Not gonna happen.”

Her smile flickered. Not gone, just... cracked.

She gave a subtle look to Typhon.

The blade at Leo’s forehead shifted—barely. Just enough to leave a thin line of red down her skin. She didn’t scream. But her breath caught. Her hands twitched in the air—raised, trembling.

“The girl,” Jungkook said flatly, “doesn’t matter to me.”

Youngblood raised an eyebrow. “Then help me understand. Why risk this much for someone you don’t care about?” She turned to Leo, then back again. “Unless, of course... she got to you.”

Leo’s breath hitched. Her shoulders were shaking now, barely holding together. Namjoon had finally emerged from the foam, his robes soaked and streaked, blood and suppressant clinging to his skin. He watched silently, his expression grim.

But Jungkook didn’t move.

Everything around him had slowed—background noise drowned out by the way Leo was looking at him. Not begging. Not pleading. Just watching. Like she needed to know, right then, what kind of man she’d followed through hell.

One tear slid from her eye. It caught the light.

“She’s a cover story,” Jungkook said quietly. “That’s all.”

The words hung in the air. Dry. Final. Like smoke from a long-dead fire.

“You shoot her now,” he added, eyes still locked on Typhon, “you’re just saving me the effort.”

Youngblood’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a grin pulling at the corner.

“Then I have your blessing.”

Typhon’s grip shifted. He adjusted the barrel just slightly—one finger already beginning its pull—

Thunk.

Jungkook’s shiv spun through the air in a perfect arc. The blade struck the rifle’s barrel and knocked it upward just as the trigger was pulled. The shot cracked into the bay ceiling with a sharp metallic ping, sending sparks raining down.

Leo gasped, hands flying up to shield her face. The shot hadn’t touched her, but it had been close enough to feel.

Typhon didn’t flinch. He didn’t even react. But his finger eased off the trigger.

Youngblood didn’t turn around. She just started walking away, her robe trailing like nothing had happened at all.

“I think I know you better than you know yourself,” she said over her shoulder. “And I think you’re lying.”

Jungkook watched her go, jaw clenched, saying nothing.

“Now’s not the time,” he muttered under his breath.

The merc still pinned beneath his boot struggled weakly, reaching for something—anything. Jungkook shifted his weight. There was a snap. Then stillness.

“Lock them down,” Youngblood called out. “We’re finished here.”

Typhon stepped back. He holstered the weapon, but not before giving Leo a final look—impassive, clinical. A single drop of blood still traced its way down her temple.

Mercs poured into the bay like water breaking through a dam. All business. No adrenaline. Just cleanup.

Leo didn’t resist when one of them grabbed her by the collar and hauled her upright. Her feet scraped, boots dragging across the floor. Her eyes were unfocused now, but not broken. She didn’t cry out. Didn’t cry at all.

Jungkook didn’t fight either.

But his eyes never stopped moving.

And if you looked closely—really looked—you’d see it:

He was counting. Doors. Guns. Guards.

Behind the group, Typhon fell in step beside Youngblood. His voice was low, barely audible over the clank of boots on metal.

“My apologies.”

Youngblood let out a small laugh. It didn’t warm anything. “Typhon, you know what those mean to me.” She didn’t look at him. “You did what you were told. A few bodies? Acceptable cost.”

Typhon nodded once, just enough to acknowledge the blood on his hands wasn’t a mistake—it was math.

“What about him?” he asked.

Youngblood’s pace slowed, her lips pulling into something between a smirk and a promise. “Slowly,” she said. “Bring Jungkook to the conservatory. I’ve got… something in mind.”

“And the others?”

She waved her hand like brushing crumbs from a table. “Unfreeze more mercs. Replacements are easy.”

Outside, the skiff that had brought them was jettisoned from the bay like trash. No ceremony. It tumbled once, struck the side of the Trinidad’s engine housing, and bounced off, spiraling into the dark.

Inside the cruiser, Jungkook lay strapped to an immobilizer—arms pinned, chest locked down. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look afraid. He just watched.

Namjoon and Leo were ahead of him, forced down a long corridor lit by strips of flickering white light. The walls were metal, matte black, cold. Industrial. Functional.

Leo’s feet barely touched the floor—her captor dragging her like she wasn’t even worth the full effort. Namjoon walked, hands bound at the wrists, back straight. Calm.

“Ever seen a ship like this before?” Namjoon asked, voice quiet.

“Plenty,” Jungkook muttered. “Just trying to figure out how they fit the pieces together.”

Namjoon’s gaze swept the walls—lined in cryo-pods, dozens of them. Some empty, others with shadows barely visible through the frost. Men. Women. Frozen for a reason.

“It’s a plantation model,” Namjoon said. “Ships like this leave port loaded with mercs and bounty contracts. They float for months. Years, if the crew holds together.”

Jungkook scoffed. “Growing soldiers instead of crops.”

Namjoon nodded once. “Bodies on one end. Labor on the other.”

Leo’s voice cut in, barely above a whisper. “Just add heat.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to her. She wasn’t being sarcastic. Just tired. But she was still sharp.

He turned his attention to Namjoon again. “You know a lot for a holy man.”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. “I listen.”

Jungkook’s smirk was brief. “Gotta be a real special brand of desperate to sign up for this kind of hell.”

A merc walking beside them stopped. Turned. Big guy. Thick armor. No patience. He slammed the butt of his rifle into Jungkook’s face without a word.

The crack echoed down the hall. Jungkook’s head jerked sideways, lip split open.

He spat blood to the floor, gave the man a slow once-over. “That wasn’t about the comment,” he said flatly. “You just needed a win today.”

Leo barked out a small, bitter laugh. She didn’t smile for long, but it was enough.

The corridor opened into a wider passage lined with more guards. The temperature dropped—not cold, exactly, but sterile. Like a morgue. The walls were clean. Too clean.

At the far end, a new voice barked: “Split ’em.”

The man who spoke—red hair, broad shoulders, hands like slabs of alloy—grabbed Leo by the shoulder and jerked her to the side. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it made a point. His name tag said BYRNE, but the way he moved said don’t test me.

Leo tensed but didn’t fight. Not yet.

Byrne looked at Namjoon. “You too, preacher.”

Namjoon nodded slightly, the expression on his face unreadable. Peaceful. Maybe performative. Maybe not. “I’ll pray.”

“For me?” Jungkook called out, half-laughing through blood.

Namjoon didn’t look back. “Not for me.”

Jungkook snorted.

Byrne shoved Leo toward a side hall. “Let’s go.”

Leo twisted in his grip, just enough to look back. Her voice cracked around the edge when she shouted, “I’m not leaving you, Jungkook! I’ll find you!”

He didn’t respond.

But for the first time, his expression changed. Not panic. Not pain. Just something tight around the eyes. Not for himself—for her. Because he knew her well enough to believe she meant it. And that kind of loyalty? That kind of promise?

That could get her killed.

He didn’t say a word as the guards rolled him down the corridor. The table moved smooth, gliding over polished floors that gleamed too much for a ship like this. But Jungkook wasn’t focused on the ride. His eyes stayed busy.

Counting boots. Watching doors. Marking every camera and shadow.

They wheeled him through a heavy door that hissed open like a lung exhaling stale breath.

The room inside was... strange.

It was clean—painfully so. Every surface gleamed under cold, sterile light, but that light wasn’t white. It was a deep, electric blue that made the shadows hum and the edges of things blur. There was something wrong with the color—it made depth look flat, made solid things feel translucent. Unreal.

The air hit him like frost. Thin and cold, dry enough to burn in his nose. The kind of climate you set for machines, not people.

Then there were the shapes.

Figures lined the walls and corners, lit from below by recessed floor lights. They weren’t statues exactly. Not in the traditional sense. They were... human-shaped. Mostly. But the more he looked, the less he liked what he saw. Arms bent wrong. Ribs that flared out too far. Mouths frozen in screams that looked too detailed to be sculpted.

In the center of the room stood a towering cone—matte black, smooth, unnaturally reflective. It shimmered slightly in the ambient glow like it was absorbing the light, not reflecting it.

Around it: the figures. Silent. Watching.

“Set him down and leave,” Typhon said.

No ceremony. Just a flat command.

The mercs unlatched the restraints. No words, no glances. The table was wheeled out as fast as it had come in, vanishing through the thick doors with a quiet thunk.

Jungkook stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, his muscles stiff from being pinned down. The floor glowed faintly beneath his boots—each step lighting up as he walked. He didn’t like it. The tech was too quiet, too intentional.

He only got a few steps in before something caught his eye.

A statue. Human form. Nearly life-sized. The posture was... strange. Shoulders hunched, head tilted slightly, arms half-raised like it had been caught mid-reaction. There was power in it—muscle, tension—but also something broken in the stance. Like whoever it had been, they hadn’t died well.

The plaque at its base read: KILLER OF MEN: FURYA

Jungkook’s lips curled at the name. Familiar. He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. The detail was eerie—every muscle line, every pore. This wasn’t sculpture. This was capture. Preservation. A body flash-frozen in time.

His hand moved up, instinctive, almost curious—reaching toward the statue’s lip.

Then it moved.

A tongue flicked out—thin, fast, wet. Just enough to lick his fingertip.

He jerked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. “What the hell—”

“You like it?” a voice asked, silk-smooth and too amused.

Jungkook spun. Loralai Youngblood stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the blue glow, one hand holding a glass of something deep red that shimmered like blood in stasis. Her robe—long, silver-white—trailed behind her like it had its own gravity.

The Furyan statue turned toward her. Slowly. Like it knew who was in charge.

Typhon stepped up behind Jungkook. Fast. Too fast.

There was a sharp, clean stab of pain—something sliding into the base of his neck. He dropped to his knees, hands catching the floor just before his face hit. His body shook once, a cold fire racing down his spine.

“Son of a—” he growled through gritted teeth.

Youngblood took her time walking in. She set her glass on a sleek chrome pedestal, casual as if this was her parlor and not some waking nightmare.

“Precaution,” she said lightly, waving her hand. “If you get any ideas—say, murdering me—I press a button, and that little implant Typhon just gifted you? Well, let’s say it ends things... fast.”

Jungkook rose to his feet slowly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was low, rough. “You’re not freezing me like one of your art pieces.”

She smiled, sharp and effortless. “Of course not. You’re for my private collection.”

She gestured toward the cone at the center of the room. As she moved, the light shifted slightly—and with it, the illusion of the space broke.

There were more of them.

Dozens. Maybe more.

Not statues—people. Or what had been people. Bodies suspended mid-motion, frozen in positions that told a story: panic, rage, surrender. Every face locked in its final expression.

Jungkook’s eyes swept the room.

It wasn’t a conservatory.

It was a gallery of endings.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Commander Angel Hitchcock moved down the dim corridor like she owned it—not fast, but with purpose. Her green-and-gray environ-suit was scuffed from years of use, the kind you didn’t replace unless it stopped sealing. Her boots hit the grated floor with a steady metallic clang, each step echoing in the empty passage like a countdown.

The hallway was cold. Not just temperature—ship cold. Recycled air, too clean to trust. Walls lined with frost-sealed cryo-chambers, each one dark and quiet like coffins for the not-quite-dead.

She stopped at a wall-mounted panel and keyed in a string of commands. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale light on her face. Sharp angles. No makeup. No softness. Just function.

REVIVE: KING?

She didn’t hesitate. Tapped yes.

Hydraulics hissed. Gears locked and disengaged. A chamber slid out with a groan, as if the ship itself wasn’t thrilled about what it was waking up.

The cryo-tube extended from the wall like a tongue spitting something out. Frost cracked along the seams. Inside, a figure twitched.

The man hit the floor hard—bare skin on freezing steel. He dropped to his knees in the decontamination chamber, gasping, face slick with cryo-sweat. A second later, he surged forward like an animal. Slammed into the glass with a shoulder and let out a guttural snarl.

“Miss me?” he rasped, voice shredded from months—or maybe years—of silence.

Hitchcock didn’t flinch. Just stepped back, pressed a gloved finger to the controls, and started the purge.

Steam hissed around him, the automated system blasting him with decontaminants. He stood there like it was nothing, letting the chemicals wash off the freeze. He shook his head, flinging water like a dog, then grinned.

“Mmm,” he muttered, eyes wild but sharp. “Fresh as a f***in’ daisy.”

The chamber hissed open, and he stepped out barefoot, half-naked, still dripping. No shame. No nerves. Just motion.

Hitchcock handed him a duffel—worn, stitched, tagged. His gear.

She didn’t say his name. Just, “Suit up. Report in.”

That was all he needed.

King pulled the bag open and started pulling on layers without breaking eye contact, checking the straps on his boots like he was reacquainting himself with an old friend. Then came the weapon—a compact scatter rifle with a folding stock and enough kick to knock a man through a bulkhead. He flipped it once, just to hear it click.

“Must be something serious,” she said, dryly. “You don’t wake up someone like you unless things are about to go sideways.”

He looked at her, eyes gleaming, grin spreading like a bad idea.

“Sister,” he said, voice low and ready, “I certainly hope so.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Youngblood moved through the gallery like she was giving a private tour. Her voice was light, casual, the kind of tone you'd expect at a high-end auction, not in a tomb full of monsters. Jungkook followed, every step slow, eyes scanning—part curiosity, part survival. Typhon stayed back, silent, but watching. Always watching.

Jungkook folded his arms, masking the unease crawling up his spine. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You track these people down, throw resources into catching ‘em alive… and this is what you do with them? Line ‘em up like trophies?”

Youngblood didn’t turn. Just smiled to herself as she drifted past another figure—one twisted so badly its silhouette barely looked human. “You’re missing the point,” she said, her voice velvet over steel.

Jungkook snorted quietly. “What point? You’ve got a gallery full of killers worth a fortune and you’re using them for interior design.”

She stopped in front of a pair—locked in some grotesque, almost intimate tangle. A man and a woman. Hard to tell which parts belonged to who. She reached out, ran her fingertips along the rigid curve of a shoulder, almost tender.

“You see waste,” she murmured. “I see legacy. These aren’t corpses, Jungkook. They’re monuments. Each one used to be the most dangerous person in some corner of the galaxy. Some of them entire systems wanted gone. The lives they took? Too many to count. Too many to forget.”

She looked at him then, her eyes sharp and bright. “I don’t waste that kind of history.”

Jungkook’s jaw shifted, his tone edged with disdain. “Yeah. Still not what I’d call ‘livin.’”

The light caught her face just right when her smile faded. It was only for a second, but something slipped through—something cold.

“They’re not dead,” she said softly.

He blinked, then turned to the statue she was facing. Looked closer.

The man’s face was frozen in a perfect expression. Calm. Too calm. His eyes slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of blinking—or trying to blink.

Youngblood leaned in. “Still breathing. Just barely. Cryo slowed to the point where seconds feel like days. No sleep. No escape. Just... thought.”

Jungkook’s stomach turned, but he kept his face blank. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked. “Mercy?”

She walked again, drawing him deeper into the space. The gallery shifted around them—figures more twisted, more broken. Arms fused to spines. Mouths contorted in impossible ways. It stopped feeling like a collection and started feeling like a warning.

Eventually, they reached a curtain.

Thick. Heavy. Blood-red. The kind of fabric that looked like it had weight even when it didn’t move.

Youngblood paused, turned to him like a magician before the reveal.

“They’re conscious, Jungkook. Every second. The brain keeps going, trapped inside the same memory loop. Over and over.” Her voice dropped, almost reverent. “It’s a better sentence than anything a slam can give. No cells. No guards. Just… them. And who they were.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “And what do you think that turns them into?”

She smiled again, slow. “Art.”

He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Your taste is garbage.”

She didn’t react. Just gave a small nod.

“Typhon.”

The man stepped forward. One hand raised. A click.

The curtain rose.

The platform wasn’t a gallery. It was a pit—wide and deep, with metal railings lining the edge. Red lights pulsed beneath the floor, slow and rhythmic, like the place itself was breathing.

Two mercs stood at either side. One of them Jungkook recognized—a pig-faced bastard who’d grinned too much during the last scuffle.

Jungkook stepped up to the edge.

He stopped cold.

Below them, suspended over the void, were Namjoon and Leo.

Both stood barefoot on smooth, unstable spheres—barely the size of their feet. Hands cuffed behind their backs. Necks looped in thin suspension cords, tight enough that one bad move would tip the balance.

Namjoon’s head hung low, body trembling with the effort to stay upright. Leo’s knees were shaking visibly, her chin lifted in forced defiance—but her eyes searched the shadows, wild with fear.

Youngblood came to stand beside him, calm as ever. “This is the difference between you and me.”

He didn’t take his eyes off them. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You’re insane.”

She reached up, touched his cheek.

He flinched, but didn’t move.

“You don’t understand beauty,” she whispered. “Not yet. But you will.”

He shoved her hand away.

“I’ve been called a lot of things,” he said. “But I’m not your canvas.”

She laughed under her breath, low and indulgent. “You already are.”

Her voice dropped, almost affectionate. “You make art, Jungkook. You carve it into bodies. You leave it behind every time someone tries to stop you. The difference is, I preserve it. I elevate it.”

Jungkook turned back toward the pit, every nerve tight, jaw locked, heart thudding in his throat.

Leo looked up from below, swaying slightly where she stood on that fragile orb of a platform. Her legs trembled from the strain, but her voice was steady.

“I said I’d find you, didn’t I?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His chest had already tightened with the kind of rage that clouded the edges of reason. He turned his head slowly toward Youngblood.

She stood a few steps behind him—composed, casual, one arm draped across her midsection as she idly swirled the wine in her glass. Watching. Not like a tactician or a soldier, but like a patron at an exhibit she’d paid dearly to attend.

“What do you want?” Jungkook asked, his voice hoarse, cracked with fury.

Youngblood smiled, slow and measured, her words curling out with a calm that made them land even harder. “I want to see you in motion,” she said, voice low. “Not through files. Not after cleanup crews. I want to see you... work.”

She took a step closer, her heels silent against the polished floor.

“I’ve spent the last ten years chasing men like you. I’ve read the reports, seen the aftermath. Bullet holes. Burn marks. Piles of bodies. But it’s always... after. Cold. Quiet.” Her eyes met his, and for the first time, they burned with something like obsession. “Now I want to see what happens before all of that.”

Typhon moved to her side and pressed a control panel embedded in the wall.

The sound that followed was deep and mechanical—ancient tech waking up. Across the far end of the chamber, thick steel doors creaked and parted with a groan that echoed off the high walls.

Down in the pit, Leo’s face drained of color. Her shoulders jerked. Namjoon’s muscles tensed, his whole body fighting to stay upright, the veins in his neck straining against the cord that kept him one slip from the end.

Up on the ledge, Youngblood took a slow sip from her glass and sighed, as if this was exactly the kind of theater she’d hoped for.

“I want to see what everyone’s so afraid of,” she said. “I want to see you, Jungkook. At your peak. At your worst.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—cold, humorless. He stepped in, slow, until he was close enough that she could feel the heat off his skin.

“I get out of here,” he said quietly, “you’re gonna see it again.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a murmur.

“From this close.”

Youngblood didn’t blink. Her expression didn’t falter. She raised her hand, and with almost theatrical flair, lifted his chin with something small and gleaming between her fingers—his own shiv. Reclaimed. Mocked.

She let it hang there for a second, the sharp tip kissing just beneath his jaw. Then she let go, and the blade clattered to the floor between them.

“I’m not interested in threats,” she said, her tone velvet but firm. “I want your masterpiece. An artist is nothing without his tools.”

Jungkook stepped back, his face unreadable. He glanced down at the shiv, then back up.

That’s when Typhon moved—silent, imposing, stepping between him and the weapon like a wall of armor and muscle.

Jungkook didn’t back down. He just looked up at the man, slow and steady, reading him.

“When we meet again,” he said, voice low, like a promise, “I’m gonna bury that blade in your eye.”

Typhon didn’t answer.

Jungkook stepped around him, bent at the waist, and picked up the shiv. No rush. Just a clean, deliberate motion, like he was slipping back into a version of himself he hadn’t worn in a while.

Jungkook rose slowly, sliding his goggles down over his eyes. The red glow from the pit caught the lenses just right, turning his expression into something not quite human—eyes faintly reflective, cold, animal.

“Let him in,” Youngblood said, her voice slicing clean through the silence.

Two mercs moved in—boots loud on the steel floor. Jungkook didn’t resist. He let the first one circle behind him, posture slack, as if compliant.

Then he turned.

One step, one twist—his boot drove hard into the side of the pig-faced merc’s head. Bone cracked. The man dropped like scrap metal.

The second merc started to lift his weapon, but he was too slow. Jungkook closed the distance in a blur and drove the shiv up under his ribs. One smooth motion. No wasted effort.

The first merc groaned, pushing himself upright, rage painted across his busted face. He lunged.

They went over the edge together.

The air split around them as they crashed into the pit below. But Jungkook twisted mid-fall, landing hard on top. The merc hit first, breath knocked from his lungs, shiv at his throat. Jungkook didn’t finish it—not yet. He stood, leaving the man wheezing on the floor.

Above, Youngblood didn’t flinch. She set the remote for Jungkook’s implant aside and lifted something else: a slim pair of polished optic lenses, old-world elegant—opera glasses reworked for ultraviolet.

“Switch it,” she said. “Ultraviolet.”

The lighting shifted. The blood-red glow vanished, replaced by a strange violet haze. Shadows sharpened. Every edge turned stark and surreal.

Jungkook blinked behind his goggles. The dark bloomed into life.

Two faint glimmers began to form in the far corners of his vision—indistinct at first, like heat waves. Then, they took shape.

Massive. Fluid. Tentacled.

Each had a pulsing mass at its core, like a brain encased in jelly, spinning slowly, lit from within. Not solid—translucent. Their bodies shimmered, phasing between visibility and shadow, like they didn’t fully exist in one place.

There wasn’t one.

There were two.

Jungkook exhaled, low and steady. “Namjoon.”

A pause. “Start praying.”

Namjoon’s voice cracked through the pit. “I was on a pilgrimage,” he muttered, his voice distant. “Just a damn pilgrimage.”

Leo was pale, her breath shaky. “This is bad, huh?”

Jungkook didn’t look at her. “Give it a minute.”

One of the shrill shifted, its long limbs trailing across the floor, dragging filaments behind it. The UV light bent around its form, warping its outline.

Then it moved.

Fast.

A tentacle lashed through the air toward the wounded merc. He never had a chance. His panicked gunfire lit up the cavern—wild, useless.

The tentacle coiled around him.

There was a snap of bone, then a piercing scream as the shrill pulled him close and injected something. His body seized, twitched. Then swelled.

Then burst.

A glowing spray of blood and tissue misted into the air, scattering across the pit floor.

Leo gagged.

Namjoon didn’t move.

Jungkook didn’t blink.

The second shrill turned toward him.

It lunged.

Jungkook moved with it, sliding beneath the strike, twisting low. He grabbed hold of one of its tendrils as it whipped past. It flung him off like dead weight. He flew, hard, slamming into the orb Leo balanced on.

It bucked under the impact. She screamed, arms flailing, collar yanking tight against her throat.

“Leo!” Namjoon shouted. He kicked off, rolling his own orb closer, using his shoulder to brace hers before she could fall. They held each other, both gasping, barely stable.

Jungkook hit the floor hard, but rolled with it, coming up fast. The creature was already pivoting, trying to flank him. He stepped in and slashed—one clean stroke.

The blade met flesh.

A hiss, like gas escaping a pressure valve. The shrill recoiled, flickering out of visibility for half a second before reforming with a sickening ripple.

Jungkook didn’t stop.

He advanced, carving through the haze. His movements were precise—nothing flashy. Just survival sharpened into muscle memory. Each strike aimed to cripple, not kill.

Behind him, the second shrill shifted direction. Its pulsing core lit up brighter as it turned on Namjoon and Leo.

“Move!” Jungkook shouted.

They were already reacting—working the collar ropes, using the tether to drag their orbs in tandem. They kicked off together, rolling straight into the beast’s path.

It stumbled, briefly disoriented.

Jungkook heard their coughing, their struggle to stay upright. He turned, sprinted, and vaulted. His boots hit the second shrill’s back mid-motion.

He drove the blade deep, straight into the core.

The creature shuddered, spasmed, then collapsed—its body dissolving into twitching muscle and light.

Jungkook hit the floor hard, shoulders absorbing the impact, the shiv still in his grip. Leo and Namjoon landed beside him in a heap, breathless and shaken.

“Get her up,” he said, already scanning the dark edges of the pit. His voice was tight, clipped. No time for softness.

“I can’t see!” Namjoon coughed, his voice raw.

“You don’t want to,” Jungkook muttered, not looking back. His goggles locked forward, catching the shimmer of movement—fluid, inhuman.

The shrill were circling now. Slow at first. Coordinated. Their bodies shifted in and out of the UV light, limbs trailing across the stone like liquid shadows. Tentacles moved with eerie precision, each one anticipating the other’s motion.

Jungkook didn’t wait.

One struck fast—too fast for the eye, but not for him. He moved like instinct given shape. Slipped sideways, spun into the blow, and let his restraint chain catch the impact. The force shattered the links.

The shiv came up like a reflex.

“You wanna go?” he said under his breath, locking eyes with the creature’s flickering core. “Let’s go.”

It lunged. He met it, blade-first.

The tentacle dropped, still writhing as it hit the ground. The other shrill hesitated, their movements suddenly less certain. Sizing him up.

Above, Youngblood leaned forward, wine forgotten. “Beautiful,” she breathed, reverent.

Typhon stood stone-still next to her. “The shrill are an exquisite species.”

She barely turned her head. “I wasn’t talking about the shrill.”

Down in the pit, Jungkook crouched low, reading the shift in their body language. One shrill moved to shield the injured one, forming a wall of limbs and light.

“They’re gonna kill him!” Leo choked, trying to push forward.

Namjoon caught her arm, pulling her back with a grip firmer than his voice. “Wait.”

The two creatures separated. Slowly. Deliberately.

Jungkook stepped back a half pace, shiv up, shoulders tight. He didn’t blink.

Then Leo’s voice broke the air.

“Jungkook!”

He didn’t hesitate. Grabbed one of the balancing spheres and shoved it hard into the wounded shrill. The orb hit with a hollow thud, knocking the creature off its footing. Jungkook followed with a fast, brutal slice, cutting deep.

The thing dropped in two halves, its body folding into itself like wet cloth.

He stared down, chest rising and falling. For a second, he couldn’t believe how fast it went down.

“Huh?”

“Jungkook—no!”

Leo’s scream snapped him around. The second shrill was already on him.

It wrapped around his arms with impossible strength, pinning him in place. He grunted, trying to twist, to shift—but the thing was too strong, too tight.

“Leo, stay back!” Namjoon shouted.

She didn’t. She tore herself free and ran toward them, grabbing the severed tentacle from the ground. She swung it, raw and desperate, around the creature’s neck. It thrashed, flinging her off like a rag doll.

She hit hard, skidding across the floor—but close. Close enough.

Jungkook saw her near the shiv. Saw her hand close around it, slick with black ichor.

“Jungkook?” she rasped, her voice shaking.

He reached for her—blood on his lips, limbs straining.

“Here!” she shouted.

The throw wasn’t perfect. But it was close enough.

He caught it clean.

A breath. A blink. Then the blade was moving—slicing through the restraint on his wrist in a single, practiced stroke.

The shrill reared back, stinger lifted, coiled like a whip ready to snap.

He didn’t back off.

Instead, he grabbed the tentacle Leo had dropped, looped it around his forearm, and pulled—dragging himself forward into the creature’s body.

A reckless move. A killer’s instinct.

He drove the shiv deep.

Right into its core.

The shrill froze.

Then it ruptured—its bioluminescent center collapsing in a burst of searing light. UV flared across the room. The sound was like glass under pressure—stretching, then snapping all at once.

Then—silence.

Everything went dark.

A beat later, the overhead lights flickered back to life—dull, industrial, humming with age.

And then came the clapping.

Slow. Measured. Hands meeting with the kind of rhythm that didn’t applaud success—just confirmed it.

Leo was curled on her side, chest heaving. Namjoon was on his knees, dazed, blinking hard. His hands shook.

Jungkook sat for a moment, head bowed, goggles cracked but still in place. Then he stood, quiet and steady. No celebration. No quip.

Above them, high on the steel balcony, Youngblood and Typhon stood like they were watching a play’s final act. The lighting cast long shadows behind them, painting their silhouettes across the far wall.

“Bravo!” Youngblood’s voice rang out—sharp, rich, soaked in something halfway between mockery and genuine awe. “The grace. The detail. The sheer violence of it. Exquisite.”

Down in the pit, Namjoon and Leo exchanged a glance. She was smiling. Not pleasantly. Not politely. She was smiling like a woman watching a private collection expand.

Leo’s stomach turned. “Is she serious?”

Namjoon didn’t answer. His eyes were already on Jungkook.

Jungkook stood a few feet away, chest rising and falling. His jaw was tight, shoulders drawn back. He wasn’t breathing hard, but his eyes hadn’t moved from Youngblood once.

He opened his mouth to speak—but cut himself off.

“Give—”

“What?” Namjoon asked, wary.

Jungkook looked over at him. “The knife.”

Namjoon hesitated. Then nodded.

He crouched next to the shrill’s corpse, reached into the split torso, and yanked the shiv free with a wet, tearing sound. He didn’t flinch—there was no room left for that. He tossed the blade underhand.

Jungkook caught it.

Above, Youngblood continued as if the whole scene was part of her script.

“Such raw beauty,” she murmured. “But it leaves one dilemma.”

Leo stiffened. “She’s not gonna say it…”

Youngblood smiled, slow and poisonous. “How will I ever have you mounted in a way that does you justice?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He just lowered the blade and pressed the tip to the side of his neck.

Leo took half a step toward him. “Wait—Jungkook, what are you doing?”

But he was already cutting.

The blade worked under his skin—fast, efficient. Blood welled and ran in thin rivers down his collarbone, warm against the cold of the pit. His face was still, focused, teeth clenched against the pain.

Then: the flicker of metal.

He pulled it free.

A tiny black device—slick with blood. Mechanical legs twitched faintly, clinging to nothing.

Youngblood’s expression cracked. For the first time, the mask slipped. She lunged for her remote.

“You gonna keep that?” Leo muttered faintly, one hand pressed over her mouth.

Youngblood’s voice turned brittle. “Looks like you’ll have to be an abstract.”

But Jungkook moved first.

He hurled the implant. Fast. High.

“Down!” he shouted.

Leo and Namjoon dropped. No hesitation.

The device struck just below the balcony’s edge.

Youngblood hit the button.

The explosion kicked a thunderclap through the room. Heat. Light. Shrapnel.

Jungkook was thrown backwards, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. The blast echoed around the pit, then dissolved into a dense, swirling smoke.

Above, metal groaned.

Youngblood stumbled forward, coughing, ash on her cheek. Fury twisted her features into something jagged. She leaned over the railing, searching through the haze.

The smoke thinned. Enough to see.

Typhon stepped forward beside her, silent and still. His face unreadable.

Below, Leo was already crawling toward Jungkook, her hands bloody, trembling.

“You good?” she asked, breathless.

He groaned and propped himself up on one elbow. “Been worse.”

Namjoon was already on his feet. No words. His eyes locked on the ragged hole in the far wall—an exit, maybe. Maybe.

He didn’t wait.

He ran.

Youngblood’s scream tore through the metal chamber, high and shrill with fury. “We’ll need a full pursuit force!”

Typhon didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just raised one brow. “With what personnel?”

“All of them,” she snapped. “Even the ‘Golls. I don’t care. If it holds a weapon or breathes through a tube, I want it moving. Now.”

She spun, heel striking the top of Typhon’s foot with a sharp twist—rage too tightly wound to keep in.

Around them, the cryo-pods hissed open one by one, venting pale mist into the already tense air. Rows of mercenaries stumbled out half-conscious, coughing, blinking against the low light. Some reached for weapons before they were even fully awake—instincts faster than thought.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Far from the chaos, deeper in the ship where the lights buzzed dim and wires hung loose from panels, a different kind of energy moved.

King crouched low in front of an old terminal, cracked fingers flying across the keys. The screen flickered to life, casting a soft blue light over his face.

Jungkook’s file popped up. The bounty number took up half the screen.

1,126,000 UD.

King whistled. “Well, aren’t you expensive,” he muttered, grinning.

Behind him, boots clanged against the grated floor. Commander Hitchcock stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face like stone.

“You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing?” she asked.

“Just browsing,” King replied without looking up. “Company files. Light reading.”

“Stow it,” she snapped, stepping closer. “We’ve got runners. Orders are clean—shoot on sight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” King said with a half-hearted salute, barely suppressing a smirk as she turned and walked off.

Elsewhere in the bowels of the ship, the world was weightless.

Jungkook moved first, drifting through a corridor choked with zero-g debris. Every motion was practiced—fluid. Namjoon followed, his hands light on the walls, guiding himself with calm precision. Behind them, Leo struggled to stay centered, arms flailing slightly as she kicked off too hard and bounced off a pipe.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

“Focus,” Jungkook said.

Behind them, the first wave of mercenaries dropped into the pit like angry wasps. They swept flashlights across the destruction—the burst shrill, the splattered walls.

King stepped into something wet. Looked down. Grimaced.

“Ugh. What was that?”

“Shut up and take point,” Hitchcock barked.

He wiped his boot on a piece of broken paneling, then looked up toward the observation deck. Youngblood was there, her face hidden in silhouette, hands gripping the rail so tight her knuckles had gone pale.

He offered her a lazy salute.

She didn’t respond.

“Burn ‘em,” Hitchcock said flatly.

King exhaled. “All right, boys—time to get sweaty.”

Gravity slammed back without warning.

Jungkook hit first, absorbing the impact in a tight roll. He came up fast, moving already. Behind him, Namjoon landed solidly, while Leo stumbled, catching herself on a broken conduit.

A deep, guttural noise rumbled through the walls—like something exhaling behind the metal.

Leo froze. “What the hell was that?”

Jungkook raised a hand, signaling stillness. “Don’t move.”

But the stillness didn’t last.

The second wave of trackers entered, boots pounding, weapons raised. Behind them came something else.

Something worse.

It clanked as it moved—metal limbs, hydraulics whining. But the rest of it was flesh. Stitched-together muscle and exposed nerves, thick cables feeding into its skull. It sniffed at the air like a dog that hadn’t eaten in days.

Its handler crouched, wiped blood from the floor, and smeared it across a feeding plate mounted to its snout.

“Let it go.”

Six Golls held the ropes. Five obeyed. The sixth tried—then screamed as the thing yanked him forward, dragging him into the dark.

Jungkook was already climbing—up a twisted support beam toward a crumbling catwalk. His muscles burned. Every step counted. At the top, he reached down without thinking.

“Come on!” he called.

Leo grabbed his arm just as flashlight beams hit her back. Jungkook pulled hard, flipping her over the ledge with a grunt. She hit the floor beside him with a yelp, still scrambling for breath.

Below, King’s voice crackled through comms. “What the—”

Gunfire.

A round clipped Jungkook’s shoulder. He staggered, caught himself, and turned with a wince. Blood soaked through his sleeve.

“You’re hit,” Namjoon said, eyes scanning him.

“Him?” Leo snapped, still breathless. “He nearly ripped me in half!”

“It’s just a graze,” Jungkook said, voice low, brushing it off.

Then the sound came again.

Louder. Closer.

That thing was moving fast.

“That bitch,” King muttered, already backing away. “Move!”

He shoved one of the other mercs aside and broke into a run, heading for the path Jungkook had carved—like he’d been planning it all along.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Jungkook stopped on a flat stretch of metal grating, just below a half-collapsed catwalk. He turned, breathing through his nose, eyes sweeping the corridor behind them.

Leo stumbled up behind him, face pale, sweat sticking strands of hair to her cheeks. She was trying to keep pace, but her legs were starting to shake. Every breath she took came in fast and shallow.

“We can’t stop,” Namjoon said, glancing back, his voice low and urgent.

“We’re not outrunning it,” Jungkook replied, calm—but final. “Not all three of us.”

Leo straightened instinctively, trying to make herself stand taller. “What? I can keep up.”

Jungkook didn’t look at her right away. When he did, his tone softened, but the edge was still there. “Maybe someday.”

He looked up. Above them, tucked just below the docking bay's support beams, was a small maintenance crawlspace—half-hidden by shadow, just out of direct line-of-sight.

He pointed. “Get her up there. Flight deck’s not far. Upper level, aft side.”

Namjoon nodded without hesitation. “I know the way.”

“Wait there. Let whatever’s chasing us pass through,” Jungkook said, already turning his attention toward the darkened corridor beyond. “When it does, you move. No looking back. No matter what you hear.”

Leo blinked. “We’ll wait for you.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. His eyes had already moved past her, tracking movement in the shadows. He stepped away, blade drawn. The light caught the edge of it just enough to glint.

“What are you gonna do?” Leo asked, but he was already gone—disappearing into the dark.

Blood hit the floor in neat, heavy drops. Jungkook sliced a clean line across his arm, dragging the blade deliberately. He didn’t wince. The pain grounded him, kept him focused.

The trail was no accident.

Far behind, mercenaries stormed through the corridor. Their lights sliced through the gloom, beams flashing across walls streaked with soot and rust.

Namjoon held Leo close in the crawlspace, her breathing shallow, hands clenched into fists.

Below them, King crouched over the blood trail, two fingers touching the fresh smear. He lifted his hand, studying the slick red against his glove.

“Smart bastard,” he muttered. His eyes tracked the path ahead, then flicked to the squad behind him. He didn’t wait for orders—just moved, following the trail like a hound on scent.

Leo shifted. “Where do we even—?”

Namjoon’s hand clamped gently over her mouth. Not harsh, not afraid. Just... controlled.

“Leo. Shh.”

She froze.

The ship was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

Then it came—deep, metallic footfalls echoing through the hull. Each step vibrated through the floor panels, a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Something was coming.

Leo’s eyes widened. Her hand found Namjoon’s sleeve, gripping tight. He didn’t flinch. He just waited—barely breathing. The beast’s roar rolled through the corridor like thunder, long and guttural.

It passed. Heavy steps retreating.

Only then did Namjoon move, peeking through the slats to check the corridor. Nothing. For now.

“We’ve got to help him,” Leo whispered, voice shaking. “He won’t make it alone.”

Namjoon looked at her. Really looked. Then shook his head.

“Sometimes, helping means leaving.”

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. The words hung heavy between them. Truth, brutal and necessary.

Far below, in the corridor, floodlights snapped on, painting the walls in harsh, clinical white.

“Fan out. Clean sweep,” Commander Hitchcock barked. Her team responded like clockwork—silent, coordinated, rifles raised as they moved room to room.

“Something here,” called Donna, one of the forward scouts, crouched over a scrap of torn cloth smeared with blood.

She picked it up delicately, glancing toward Hitchcock.

King stepped closer, eyes narrowing. His whole body tensed.

“Don’t—” he started.

Too late.

Donna turned the fabric over in her hands.

“Oh, shit,” Hitchcock muttered.

A low rumble shook the walls. Deeper than before.

The Goll was coming.

It wasn’t subtle—nothing about it was. Half-machine, half-flesh, its limbs hit the floor like dropped anvils. Tubes pumped fluid into open muscle. Metal teeth glinted in its warped jaw.

King backed up, fast, drawing his weapon.

“Guns up!” someone shouted. Too late.

The beast rounded the corner.

No pause. No roar.

It hit the team like a battering ram.

Rifles barked in quick, sharp bursts—but the rounds barely slowed the thing down. The Goll moved straight through the fire like it was walking through rain. Donna didn’t even get a scream out. One swing of its massive arm, and she was airborne, her body cracking against the wall with a sickening, final sound. Everyone nearby flinched—but no one looked twice. There wasn’t time.

King dropped low, rolling behind a half-shattered support bulkhead. He risked a glance.

Bad call.

The creature had already carved through two more—just ripped them open like wet paper. Its claws glistened in the emergency lights, streaked with blood and fluid.

King’s expression changed—gone was the smirk, the commentary. He fired once, not at the beast, but at the wall. A sewage pipe ruptured with a loud hiss, spraying black water and chemicals. Without hesitation, he dove into the flood, letting it carry him down into darkness.

Hitchcock never got the chance.

The Goll spotted her mid-shout, and lunged. The crunch of impact was brutal—sickening. Then nothing. Just a torn uniform and a smear across the deck.

And that’s when Jungkook dropped.

He came out of the ceiling—no words, no sound—just a blur of movement and weight. He landed hard on the Goll’s back, all his momentum driving the blade down and in.

It found soft tissue, somewhere deep beneath the armored spine. The creature roared—less fury now, more agony. It stumbled forward, legs buckling.

Jungkook held on tight, twisting the blade with both hands until something deep inside the thing gave. The Goll dropped hard, its frame twitching as systems shorted and flesh spasmed.

Jungkook pulled the shiv free and rolled off before the beast fully collapsed. He landed in a crouch, breathing hard.

He stood over the wreckage, chest rising and falling, eyes scanning the quiet that followed. His shoulder bled from where the graze hadn’t clotted, but he didn’t seem to notice. His gaze flicked to a cyborg body half-buried in debris. One arm gone, but the torso armor—intact.

He grunted to himself.

“Not putting that tank back on,” he muttered. Then eyed the cyborg’s gear again. “But that might do.”

Up ahead, Namjoon was already at work, prying open a floor panel with his hands. The cover came loose with a groan of warped metal. He ducked his head and peered down.

A tunnel. Just a few meters. The flight deck was at the far end—quiet, lit in low blue strips. Empty.

He slipped through, crawling forward. He’d barely cleared the edge when something slammed into the back of his skull.

Hard.

He hit the deck with a thud, lights spinning.

Leo followed fast, hands scrambling for the same edge.

She barely had time to register what she saw before a hand caught the back of her neck and yanked her through like luggage.

Typhon.

He lifted her effortlessly, his grip ironclad. Her boots kicked against the floor, hands flying up to fight. She slammed her fist into his jaw—once, twice.

Nothing.

His face didn’t twitch.

Then his hand closed around her throat.

Not a squeeze. A clamp—a controlled crush, like someone picking up glass and daring it to shatter.

Leo’s legs kicked once, her vision tunneling. The sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears, ragged and fast.

Then a voice cut through the air—low, sharp, and unmistakably cold.

“Let her go.”

Typhon’s eyes shifted—slow, deliberate. He didn’t look surprised. He just lowered her gently to the floor, his hand slipping away like nothing had happened.

Leo dropped to her knees, coughing hard, hands pressed to her neck.

Jungkook stepped out of the shadows, his stance steady, the shiv in his right hand catching just enough light to gleam.

“You want me,” he said quietly. “Not her.”

He took a step forward.

“You want a shot at the title?”

Typhon’s lip twitched into something close to a smirk.

Jungkook’s fist hit the steel wall hard. The clang echoed through the space like a warning bell, not just sound—but intent. His jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. Across from him, Typhon stepped forward calmly, like none of this was a surprise. Like he’d been waiting.

He peeled off his long coat with mechanical ease. No rush. No wasted movement. His expression was unreadable—just the steady calculation of someone who'd survived more fights than he could count.

Jungkook didn’t wait for ceremony. His shiv was already in hand, blade glinting under the harsh fluorescents.

Typhon pulled a sidearm, but didn’t lift it. Instead, he dismantled it as he walked—piece by piece—then let it clatter to the floor. He was choosing the other weapon. The one that made this personal.

A long, curved blade came next. Hand-forged, clean. It hummed when it moved. It wasn’t for show.

They faced each other, silent. No banter. No taunts. Just air moving between them, charged like a stormfront.

Jungkook moved first.

He came in fast but stopped short—just outside Typhon’s reach. Testing him.

Typhon didn’t flinch. He jabbed.

Jungkook slipped it. Knocked the sword aside with a snap of his boot and closed the gap.

The first flurry was close-range—tight, fast, vicious. Blades scraped, fists collided, breath caught in chests. Typhon’s strikes were disciplined. Measured. Jungkook’s were sharp, fast, and dirty. He wasn’t dancing—he was trying to end it.

Typhon ducked a throat strike and spun behind him. Jungkook reversed, catching the man’s forearm mid-swing and twisting. The sword dropped. Jungkook kicked it across the floor.

But Typhon wasn’t unarmed for long. He slammed his elbow into Jungkook’s ribs, then drove a knee into his leg. Jungkook staggered, grunted—but didn’t go down.

They separated. Breathed.

Then came at each other again.

No finesse now. Just blunt force. Jungkook’s knuckles cracked across Typhon’s jaw. Typhon shoved him into the wall. Jungkook rebounded and drove his shoulder into Typhon’s gut, lifting the bigger man briefly off the ground. They hit the floor hard, grappling in a tangle of limbs and breath.

A boot connected. Jungkook’s shiv skidded across the room.

Typhon rolled to his feet, grabbed the sword again, and advanced.

Jungkook saw it coming. No blade. No backup. Just a broken field of debris around him. And a severed power line—sparking, twitching.

As Typhon raised the sword, Jungkook moved. He dove, rolled under the swing, and grabbed the live cable. He yanked it tight, flipped it over Typhon’s head, and pulled.

The choke was instant.

Typhon clawed at the wire, his blade falling loose. Sparks hissed against his skin. He tried to pivot, throw him off. Jungkook held on, jaw clenched, hands white-knuckled.

Then—snap.

Typhon’s free hand sliced the wire with a utility blade from his belt. Power surged one last time before the lights went out.

Blackness.

Just the sound of heavy breathing.

A footstep.

A scrape.

Then—crack.

The wet sound of something breaking. Not metal. Bone.

Then a scream—ragged, short-lived, cut off like a bad signal.

The emergency lights sputtered to life. Dim, red, flickering.

Typhon was on the floor, twisted on his side, his body twitching in the fading current. Jungkook stood over him, face unreadable, blood on his hands. The shiv—his—was buried clean through Typhon’s eye socket, the hilt flush against his skull.

No words for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “I told you that was coming.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Namjoon groaned, low and hoarse, as pain dragged him out of unconsciousness. His head throbbed. A sharp, pulsing ache just behind his right eye. He blinked, eyes adjusting slowly to the flickering light above him. Cold metal under his palms. Smoke in the air.

Beside him, Leo lay still.

He turned toward her, reaching out with a hand that didn’t feel entirely steady. He shook her gently by the shoulder.

“Leo,” he murmured.

Nothing.

His breath caught for a moment. Panic surged—sharp and uninvited—until he saw her chest rise, shallow but steady. She was out cold, not gone.

Namjoon exhaled, steadying himself before pushing upright, his joints stiff from whatever blast or fall had knocked them flat. His eyes scanned the hangar—dim, scattered with debris—and then landed on Jungkook.

Jungkook was walking toward them, slower than usual. He cradled his left arm tight to his ribs. Blood soaked through the fabric in thick blotches, but he didn’t stop. His face was pale, lips drawn tight. No sound but the soft drag of his boots on the floor.

Namjoon rose, still holding Leo, watching Jungkook approach.

“Where are you going?” he asked, the words dry in his mouth.

Jungkook paused. Lifted his eyes.

“Prepping the ship,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “So… it’s over?”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. Just looked toward the bay doors, the flickering lights, the wreck of what had almost been their grave. Then back to Namjoon. A flicker crossed his face. Something like relief—but only for a breath.

“Not yet,” he said.

The doors to the launch corridor groaned open.

For a second, they all just stood there—no alarms, no monsters, no orders coming through their ears. Just stillness.

Then a sound. Subtle. Wrong.

Jungkook’s head snapped around.

Standing in the open doorway was Youngblood.

Her hair clung to her face in clumps, soaked in blood. Her gown—once pristine—was torn, stained, half-charred. She held herself together by sheer spite. Her eyes locked on Jungkook with feral focus. She was smiling.

“Thought you’d just leave?” she asked, her voice hollow.

The gun in her hand shook, just a little.

“Should’ve mounted you when I had the chance,” she whispered.

Then she fired.

The crack of the gunshot echoed like thunder in the metal belly of the ship.

Jungkook’s body jerked. He hit the ground hard, his leg folding under him. The impact was rough—raw. His head bounced once. He didn’t move again.

“Stinking savage,” Youngblood spat, stumbling closer, the gun still raised.

Namjoon froze. Leo was stirring now, blinking, dazed, but trying to sit up.

Youngblood’s hand trembled as she pointed the barrel at Jungkook’s head, eyes glassy.

Her finger curled again.

The shot never came.

A second gunshot rang out—short, sharp, final.

Youngblood’s head snapped back. Then it wasn’t there.

Her body collapsed like a dropped coat.

The silence that followed was brutal. No one moved for a second. Just the soft clink of the gun hitting the ground.

Smoke drifted from the barrel in Leo’s hand.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

Namjoon helped Jungkook sit up. Blood trickled from his side, soaking into his waistband, but he was breathing.

“Damn,” Jungkook rasped. “You always this dramatic?”

Leo stared down at Youngblood’s body. “She was going to shoot you again.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Namjoon snorted quietly. Leo didn’t smile.

Jungkook grinned, just a little. Then winced.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The shuttle broke free of the Trinidad’s pull like it had been holding its breath.

Outside, the black was endless. Cold. Empty. The wreck behind them was already just a shadow.

Inside, the engines hummed steady and low. A mechanical heartbeat. No chatter. No alarms. Just the quiet tension of people who weren’t sure what came next.

Jungkook sat slouched in the pilot’s chair, his body loose with exhaustion, one arm cradled in a torn sling of salvaged cloth. The goggles he wore were scratched at the edges, grime smudged into the lenses, but he kept them on. Maybe out of habit. Maybe because he didn’t want to look too closely at what was ahead—or behind.

He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Namjoon stepped forward from the corridor, slow and careful not to disturb the quiet.

“Jungkook.”

No response at first.

“Jungkook,” he repeated, lower this time.

The pilot’s head tilted slightly, eyes still on the stars. “We got a problem?”

Namjoon shifted, his hand brushing the edge of the console. “No. Not back there, anyway.” His gaze flicked to the distant debris field shrinking in the rear scope. “It’s what’s in front of us I’m worried about.”

Jungkook finally looked at him—just a glance.

Behind them, Leo lay curled on the bench meant for gear storage, not people. She was wrapped in an old thermal blanket, one hand clenched around Typhon’s weapon like it was a lifeline. Her breathing was even, but her fingers twitched every few seconds. Like her body hadn’t realized it could rest yet.

Namjoon followed Jungkook’s gaze.

“She’s changed,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure she knows how to come back from this.”

Jungkook’s eyes stayed on her a moment longer, unreadable. Then he spoke, low and blunt:

“She’ll end up like me.”

Namjoon didn’t argue. Just looked down at the floor, lips pressed into a line. Silence stretched between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just honest.

Jungkook eased himself back into the pilot’s seat, the leather torn and stiff beneath him. His injured arm was tucked close to his body, the sling damp with blood at the shoulder. He worked the console with his other hand—efficient, practiced. Like muscle memory doing the heavy lifting.

A row of green lights blinked to life across the dash. Soft glows spread across his face—cool blues, dull greens. Nothing harsh. Nothing loud. Just the quiet hum of a ship on the edge of silence.

The nav system buzzed once, screen flickering to a crawl as the starmap unfolded. A scatter of constellations shimmered across the glass like oil on water. Jungkook scrolled through them, eyes moving quick but deliberate. He paused when he hit one system—small, out of the way.

“UV system,” he muttered. Just loud enough for himself.

Namjoon, who’d been standing just off his shoulder, leaned in slightly. His presence was quiet, but solid. “Where’s that?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just keyed in the new coordinates and leaned back, his breath slow and shallow.

Namjoon watched him for a long moment. He didn’t press.

Jungkook finally spoke, voice low. “I’m dropping you and Leo at New Mecca.”

Namjoon frowned gently. “New Mecca?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said. “Wasn’t that the plan? Safe port. Clean exit. It’s yours.”

He didn’t look at Namjoon, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him. Thoughtful. Heavy with concern.

“And you?” Namjoon asked.

“I’ll disappear before docking. Sneak out through the lower chute if the seals hold.” He exhaled slowly. “You tell them I died on the Trinidad. Keep it simple.”

Namjoon stepped back a pace, his brow furrowed. “You don’t have to do that.”

Jungkook’s fingers paused over the controls. “I do.”

“You think you’re protecting us by doing this,” Namjoon said gently.

Jungkook gave a tired half-smile. “Am I wrong?”

Namjoon didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either. He just looked down at the floor between them, then back up at the younger man in the pilot’s seat.

“You saved her,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve run.”

Jungkook shrugged with his good shoulder. “Didn’t feel like running.”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “You say that like it means nothing. But it means everything to her.”

The shuttle’s engines shifted tone—deeper now, resonant. The course had locked in. They were committed.

Outside, stars bent and slipped past the viewplate in streaks, like rain on glass. The Trinidad—ruined and burning—was already behind them. Just another piece of debris in the black.

Jungkook sat quietly, watching it fade.

Namjoon turned to leave, but hesitated.

“If you change your mind,” he said gently, “there’s room on that planet for all of us.”

Jungkook didn’t turn.

“Some people don’t get to come back,” he murmured. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t make sure others did.”

Namjoon didn’t speak again. He just nodded—once—and walked away, the soft thud of his boots fading down the corridor.

Jungkook stayed there, alone at the controls, hand still on the throttle. He didn’t move.

He just watched the stars and thought about the someone who didn’t make it either.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The flight deck was quiet now. Too quiet.

No alarms. No comms. Just the faint crackle of fried circuits and the slow, lazy spin of a busted fan overhead. The kind of silence that only happens after a massacre—when even the ship seems unsure whether it’s still alive.

King stood near the edge, just outside the docking threshold, arms folded, weight shifted onto one blood-crusted boot. The other was planted in something sticky that used to be part of a merc. He didn’t look down. Didn’t care.

The hangar bay stretched out behind him like the inside of a gutted animal. Smoke drifted along the ceiling. The lights flickered and dimmed, like they were giving up.

He watched the shuttle.

Just a glint at first, a speck of movement against the black. Then it was gone—swallowed up by the void.

Still, he stared after it. Silent. Brow furrowed. A vein twitching just above his temple.

“Jungkook,” he muttered.

The name tasted like rust and regret. Like something he’d been chewing on too long.

He licked a cut on his lip and spat off the edge of the deck. The blood hit metal with a soft tch.

“We ain’t done,” he said, low and even. Not a threat. Not even a promise. Just fact.

His voice didn’t echo.

He didn’t move.

Just kept standing there, hands still, boots glued to the carnage beneath him, eyes locked on where the stars had swallowed the shuttle whole.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The skies above M6-117 were quiet now. Empty, wide, and harsh. The kind of quiet that didn’t mean peace—just the absence of screaming.

The eclipse had ended. The suns had returned, casting a bleached-blue glare across the scorched landscape. The heat came fast, drying blood, baking bones, erasing evidence. The bioraptors had vanished back underground, like the monsters they were—real, but unseen.

The wind hadn’t stopped. It kicked up grit in steady waves, howling across the dunes and cliffs. Thin, high-pitched. Like something still mourning.

In the shadow of a broken rockslide, part of a cave lay half-buried in sand and debris. Inside, it was cooler. Still. The air stank of blood and dust and something darker.

A body lay on the ground, facedown in the red sand.

It twitched.

Then again.

A low, strangled gasp broke the silence. Y/N Y/L/N dragged in a breath like it hurt. Her fingers clawed at the sand, trying to push herself up, but her muscles didn’t answer right away. She blinked, dust clinging to her lashes, and saw only the ground in front of her face.

Her mind spun. Pain screamed at her from every direction. Her ribs were cracked. Something deep in her gut pulsed with fire. But she was alive.

She wasn’t sure how.

She shifted—and the pain in her side became unbearable. She cried out, a rough, animal sound, sharp enough to echo. Her hand pressed instinctively to the source, only to feel the jagged, cold edge of something unnatural jutting from her body.

It was part of a bioraptor. The broken tip of its antenna—long, thin, sharp—embedded just below her ribs.

She stared at it.

Her breathing turned shallow.

She could feel the warm trickle of blood around it. Too much blood.

Her hands trembled as they hovered near the wound.

“Okay,” she whispered. It didn’t sound like her. “Okay… okay…”

She took a breath. Just one. Then wrapped her fingers around the antenna and yanked.

It came free with a wet pop.

The pain dropped her flat again. She couldn’t even scream—her breath caught in her throat like broken glass. For a second, everything went gray at the edges. She fought to stay conscious. One hand pressed into the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Her other hand dug into the sand, anchoring her.

Move. Just move.

She rolled onto her side, breath ragged. Her fingers found the antenna again and, slowly, shakily, she used it like a crutch to pull herself up.

The suns outside were merciless. Light poured through the cracked stone above, stinging her eyes. She squinted, shielding her face as she staggered toward the cave’s opening. Each step was an argument with gravity. Her legs barely held.

But she made it.

Outside, the wind hit her like a slap. Sand scraped at her skin, got into her wounds. Her jumpsuit was torn, crusted with blood and dust. Her lips were cracked. Her throat burned.

She looked out over the desert.

Nothing but dunes. Heat shimmered off the sand in waves. But in the far distance, barely visible, was the broken spine of the Hunter-Gratzner. Half-buried. Still smoldering.

She stared at it like it was a promise. Or a curse.

Then she started walking.

She leaned hard on the antenna, every step like dragging dead weight. Her breath came in low, steady huffs. No room for panic. No energy for hope.

Her mind kept flashing images—pieces that didn’t fit right. Screaming in the dark. Jungkook’s voice, sharp and close. Leo. Namjoon. The ship rising into the sky without her. Or maybe that was just a dream. Maybe it hadn’t made it off the ground.

She didn’t know.

She walked anyway.

At some point, her knees buckled and she hit the sand hard. She stayed there a while, staring at nothing, waiting for her legs to stop shaking. Then she pushed herself back up.

The wreck was closer now.

It took everything she had left.

When she reached the wreck, her legs gave out. No dramatics—just gravity, and her body finally saying enough. She collapsed at the base of the scorched hull, the heat from the metal pressing into her cheek. For a second, she stayed there, breathing shallow and fast, the air burning in her lungs.

She pressed her face to the ship’s skin like it might recognize her. Might remember what she’d given to get back here.

It didn’t.

She dragged herself through the narrow corridor, her hand leaving a smearing trail of blood across the wall. The inside of the ship was hollowed out, quiet in a way that felt too final. Sunlight leaked through bent panels in thin, golden shafts. Dust floated in the beams. Everything else was still.

She found a corner—small, cramped, out of the sun—and dropped there. Her back hit the wall, and she slid down with a grunt, her body one long, dull scream of nerves. The jumpsuit clung to the wound. She peeled it back slowly, trying not to scream when the fabric tore away dried blood.

The wound was worse than she’d let herself believe. Deep. Angry. Still bleeding. She swallowed hard as she probed it with trembling fingers—and felt it. A shard of something still inside her. Bone? Metal? No. She knew exactly what it was: the antenna. A piece of that thing. Still with her.

She almost laughed. She didn’t.

Instead, she grabbed what was left of her belt and tied off a section of fabric over the wound. It was sloppy. Crude. But it was what she had. Her fingers hovered there a moment, pressing, breathing.

Her head dropped back against the wall, her jaw clenched. Every breath came with a spike of pain. And exhaustion… it was creeping in fast. The kind that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that felt like sleep—but leaned closer to surrender.

Memories came in flickers. Not in order. Not clear.

Darkness, wet and full of teeth. The glowworm bottle shaking in her hand. Screams she didn’t know if she’d imagined or made. The taste of her own blood. The moment the antenna had gone in.

But there’d been something else.

Another one of them—bigger, meaner—crashing into the one that had pinned her. Claws raking flesh, jaws tearing. It hadn’t been mercy. Just hunger. A bigger predator taking down the competition. It didn’t come for her. Not then. Just devoured its own.

She didn’t remember crawling to the cave. Didn’t remember sealing the entrance. Just remembered the sound—their claws dragging across the rock, trying to dig her out. The pressure in her ears. Her own heartbeat louder than everything else.

And then, nothing.

Until now.

She blinked the sweat from her eyes and forced herself to move. The med bay wasn’t far. She didn’t think about what would happen if it had already been stripped. She just moved. Every step was calculated, robotic.

The medical kit was still there. Dusty, kicked halfway under a cabinet, but untouched.

She didn’t let herself feel relieved. Just opened it.

Anesthetic. Forceps. Needle. Thread.

Her hands shook too hard to hold anything steady. The syringe took two tries before she got the plunger back. She jammed the needle into the flesh around the wound. Didn’t flinch. Just exhaled, slow and ragged.

The numbing was partial. That was enough.

She picked up the forceps.

For a long time, she didn’t move. Just stared at the open kit. At her own bloodied fingers. At the wound.

Just get it over with.

The forceps slid in.

The pain was savage. She didn’t scream this time—just clenched her teeth so hard her jaw locked. Her body tried to curl in on itself, but she kept going, deeper, until she felt it.

A click of metal against metal.

She yanked.

It came out slick and sharp, the jagged end of the bioraptor’s antenna glinting red in the dim light.

She dropped it to the floor. Let it roll where it wanted.

She had to rest. Just for a second. Just a second.

But the blood kept coming.

She forced herself upright. Threaded the needle with shaking fingers. She didn’t think. Didn’t let her mind go anywhere but forward.

Each stitch was its own nightmare.

When it was done, she slumped again, panting, her skin cold despite the heat. Her hand rested on the bandage, her eyes tracking the slow drip of blood still escaping.

She tilted her head back. Stared up at the ceiling like it might say something useful.

Nothing came.

No voice. No rescue. No answer.

Just her.

She licked her dry lips, voice cracked and flat.

“…Fuck.”

Chapter 6: M6-117

It had been about a week since she’d dragged herself back to the wreck, bloody, broken, and sure she'd die there. Time didn’t work the same on M6-117. There were no nights anymore—just the relentless weight of heat and light from the planet’s three suns, painting everything in bleached gold and bruised shadow. Days blurred. Pain blurred. All of it became one long stretch of surviving.

The wound in her side was still tender, stitched tight by unsteady hands and whatever thread she could scavenge from a torn flight jacket. Every movement tugged at it—sharp reminders that she wasn’t out of danger, just walking beside it now.

But she was moving. That was something.

Her world had shrunk to a routine. A grim, necessary rhythm of searching for water in fractured pipes, picking through twisted metal for anything she could turn into a tool, a weapon, or fuel. And when she wasn’t scavenging, she was listening—really listening. For breathing that wasn’t hers. For claws. For the scratch of something still out there.

The wreck had gone silent after the eclipse ended. No bioraptors. No screaming. Just the groan of stressed metal and her own footsteps echoing off bulkheads.

She'd made a corner of the cryochamber hers. The cryo unit was done for, split open like an overripe fruit, but the space was small, shielded, and out of the way. She’d insulated the floor with old uniforms and a couple ruined blankets. It stank of old coolant and dried blood, but at least it stayed cool when the heat got bad.

The walls still bore remnants of what the ship used to be—old NOSA placards peeling at the edges, blinking panels that flashed error codes in dying green light, and soot trails streaked across the ceiling from the fire suppression system kicking in too late. It was a grave, really. She lived inside a grave. But it was better than nothing.

That morning, she forced herself to explore farther.

Her muscles ached—worse in the mornings, like her body needed convincing to keep trying. She kept her hand on the wall as she moved through the corridor, half for balance, half to feel something solid beneath her fingers.

She found herself at a section they hadn’t touched much before. Starboard storage, mostly sealed during the worst of it. Back when there were others to consider—people who needed her to be strong, fast, efficient. No time for curiosity. Only priorities: food, light, defense.

Now there was only her. And time. Too much of it.

The first door barely gave under her weight—half-crushed, bent inward like it had tried to fold itself shut during the crash. Y/N pressed her shoulder to it, felt the resistance, then forced it open just enough to slip through.

The metal scraped against itself with a harsh groan. She ducked low, her breath catching as the movement tugged at the stitched wound in her side. She winced but kept going, inching through the narrow gap until she was inside.

The air was dry and stale. Hot. It smelled of scorched plastic and oxidized metal, and when she moved, a thin layer of ash and dust rose around her in lazy swirls. Her hand instinctively covered her mouth as she coughed.

The space was wrecked—storage bay maybe, or a utility room. Hard to tell. The walls were blackened with soot, panels popped loose from their bolts. Most of the crates had been crushed flat or ripped open, their contents spilled and warped from heat. Burned rations. Melted circuitry. Garbage.

She kept digging anyway. You couldn’t afford to pass anything up. Every scrap might mean one more hour alive.

Then her hand brushed something solid. Cold. Square-edged.

She froze. Reached again, slower this time. Whatever it was, it was lodged under a twisted shelf. She gave it a hard yank, and it came loose with a pop of static from the surrounding debris.

A camera.

NOSA-issued. Military-grade. Tough build. Matte black casing scuffed and scratched, the sort of thing meant to survive impact, weather, time. Her fingers curled around it like it might vanish. She turned it over, thumb brushing against the ridged power switch.

The screen blinked on with a low whir, grainy at first, then steadier.

The timestamp burned on the corner of the display: the day of the crash.

Her stomach turned. Not from the wound, not this time.

She stared at the date. Blinked. Her thumb hovered near the playback button.

What could possibly be on here? Footage from the wreck? A log? A view of her, maybe, shouting over the storm, trying to keep people alive, trying to outrun the dark.

Or something worse.

She let the camera rest in her lap. Leaned back against the edge of a crate and rubbed her hand across her face. Her skin felt dry and cracked, caked with dirt and dried sweat. The heat in this part of the wreck was worse. Less airflow. Fewer cracks in the hull.

“Right,” she muttered, looking down at the device. “Like any of this would’ve made a difference.”

The camera didn’t reply. Just sat there, screen glowing, lens aimed up like it was waiting. Like it was listening.

She hated that it almost felt alive. Too many days with only your own voice bouncing off the walls, and you started assigning souls to objects.

Still… the idea didn’t leave her. Not all the way. She could use it. Record something. Not a distress call—she wasn’t dumb enough to believe that kind of miracle was coming. But maybe just to talk. Something to anchor her to herself.

She didn’t press record.

Not yet.

Instead, she set it gently on the edge of a crate and stood, steadying herself with one hand. Her legs ached, and the muscles around her wound were starting to throb. She ignored it. There were more rooms to check. More corners of this grave to dig through.

She climbed through a low break in the wall, into another part of the ship—this one better preserved. Still messy. Still broken. But more intact. Storage crates littered the space, some cracked open, some still sealed.

She knelt beside the nearest pile. Pain flared up her side again, sharp and deep. She sucked in a breath and kept going.

Found food packs—sealed. Clean. Enough for maybe another week, if rationed right. A length of rope. A hand torch. Small wins. The kind that could mean everything.

She carried it all back to the cryo chamber in two trips. Set it down carefully on her makeshift bedding. Let herself breathe.

Her eyes drifted back to the camera.

It hadn’t moved. Of course it hadn’t. But it felt like it was waiting. Still. Quiet. Expecting something.

“Maybe later,” she said, mostly to herself.

But even as she turned away, the idea lingered. Not hope. Not exactly.

Just... the need to remember she was still a person. And that maybe, somewhere down the line, someone would want to know what happened here.

Even if it was only the walls.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The camera sputtered awake with a groan, like it resented the effort. The motor’s whine was sluggish, hesitant—like something half-dead remembering how to breathe. The lens jittered before settling, the flicker reminding her of a dying candle—just barely clinging on. It wasn’t a victory, not even close. But after the fire, the impact, and the soul-crushing silence of the days that followed, the damn thing still worked. She didn’t feel triumphant. If anything, it felt like the universe was mocking her.

She leaned into the frame, face streaked with dirt, sweat gleaming under the camera’s dull red light. Her eyes were hollowed by fatigue, lids heavy like sandbags. Hair plastered to her temples in grimy clumps, tangled and wild, a clear message that survival had long since outranked vanity. She squinted at the screen, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the focus. Her fingers, stiff and awkward, moved like they didn’t remember what finesse was.

“Okay,” she said hoarsely, voice cracked like the desert floor outside. She swallowed and tried again, quieter this time. “Okay…”

The timestamp blinked to life: HUNTER GRATZNER – SOL 19 – 06:53. She stared at the numbers, let them sit there, heavy as lead. Nineteen sols. Almost three weeks since the crash. Almost three weeks since everything splintered apart. Somehow it felt like forever and yesterday at the same time.

She leaned back, dragging a hand across her brow and only smearing more dirt across it. “This is… Y/N Y/L/N. Pilot.” Her tone was flat, too drained to bother with formality. She could’ve been filling out a form, not recording what might be her last words. “Logging this… just in case.”

Her voice trailed off into the heat-thick air. The only sound was the low whir of the camera. Then, suddenly, a bitter laugh escaped her—sharp, involuntary. “Just in case I don’t make it.”

Her eyes drifted toward the cramped walls of the survival shelter. They looked closer than before, like they were shrinking inward. She blinked hard, tried to focus. But her thoughts had a way of slipping off-course these days. She blamed the heat. She blamed the silence.

The first week after the crash was a mess of pain and blackout stretches. That damned bone had punctured her side—jagged and deep—and pulling it out nearly knocked her out cold. She’d spent two full days sprawled across the remains of the cockpit, bleeding into the floor, half-conscious and half-delirious. Every movement felt like a death sentence. The bleeding slowed eventually, and she’d tied together enough scraps of uniform to hold herself together.

By day three, she’d clawed her way to what was left of the storage compartments and scavenged a crude medkit. Nothing sterile, nothing proper, but enough to keep the infection at bay. Enough to survive.

Since then, survival had been a matter of cataloging and rationing. What was left? What still worked? Most of the ship was scrap—gutted, burned, twisted beyond recognition—but there were pockets of salvage. A stash of dehydrated meal packs. Some intact water lines, though who knew how long they’d hold. The pressure unit was holding, barely. The oxygen regulator had hairline fractures she hadn’t figured out how to seal yet. Time was running out. Breath by breath.

And the heat. Gods, the heat. The planet didn’t cool. Ever. With three suns in staggered orbit, there was no real night, just a dimming. A pause. She wasn’t sticking around for the next sunset—not when that was a couple of decades away. The constant pressure of it was maddening. Sweat pooled beneath her clothes, dried in salty crusts. Finding a tube of half-used sunscreen in one of the cabins had felt like discovering gold. She'd applied it like it was sacred, smoothing it over her arms and face with a reverence she didn’t even know she had left. For a few moments, she’d felt like a person again.

Now, she stared into the camera, her voice quieter. “Probably won’t make it,” she said, almost like she was sharing a secret with herself. “Not unless I can fix the ship… or find something better.”

Her gaze hardened, locking onto the lens like it was someone to talk to. “It’s oh-six-fifty-three, Sol nineteen. And I’m still here.” She let the words hang, heavy and strange. “Obviously.” It was meant to be sarcasm, but it landed like an empty shell.

She rested her elbows on her knees, her body folding in on itself. “I bet this’ll come as a shock. To NOSA. To… whoever’s watching. Surprise, I guess.” She exhaled slowly, one corner of her mouth twitching in what might have been a smile if there’d been any humor left in her.

“They think I’m dead. All of them. Honestly? So did I.”

Her hand curled into a fist, knuckles pale. Then she held something up—a jagged, bloodstained piece of bone. It caught the light like something sacred and awful. “This tore through me,” she said, eyes locked on it. “Ripped me open like tissue paper. I thought I was done.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I should’ve been done.”

She turned the bone slowly in her hand, studying it like it might tell her something. “But it saved me. Long enough for the bleeding to stop. Long enough to crawl somewhere safe.” She paused, jaw tightening. “Three days. Three godsdamn days. Hiding in a fucking cave. Praying those bioraptors wouldn’t sniff me out.”

She looked toward the viewport, her eyes following the jagged line of the horizon. Nothing but dust and rock and heat as far as she could see—like the planet had been built just to wear people down. No signs of life. No movement. Just stillness and that same bone-dry silence that stretched forever. A place that didn’t give a damn if you lived or died.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Jungkook…”

She paused, swallowing around something thick in her throat. It took effort to keep her voice steady. “If you ever hear this… just know it wasn’t your fault. None of it was. Shit just went sideways.” Her jaw tensed. “You did what you had to. I get it.”

She let the silence sit for a second, then added, softer, “If I’d been in your shoes… I would’ve done the same.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor, and her whole body seemed to cave in on itself, like the weight of everything finally settled on her shoulders. “I’m glad you made it,” she said quietly. “All of you.”

The quiet that followed was thick and suffocating. After a moment, she let out a sharp breath and dragged a hand down her face, like she could wipe off the fatigue. “So yeah,” she muttered, the edge in her voice dulled by exhaustion. “That’s where we’re at.”

She straightened up a little, like it was some kind of formality. “Y/N Y/L/N. Stranded on planet M6-117.” Her eyes scanned the room, as if it still surprised her that this cramped little pod was all she had left. “No comms, because—” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Well, the ship’s a fireball now. So, there’s that.”

Her hand swept vaguely around the tiny habitat. It trembled a little as she gestured. “Even if I could send a signal, the closest manned mission isn’t anywhere near this quadrant. Not for years. Maybe decades. And I’ve got thirty-one days’ worth of supplies. That’s my clock.”

She took a breath, slower this time. “If the oxygenator dies, that’s it. No backup. I just… stop breathing. If the water reclaimer fails, dehydration’s next. If there’s a breach and this place heats up?” She shook her head slightly. “I’ll cook before I even know what hit me.”

Her voice cracked, barely holding together. “And if none of that happens... I still run out of food.”

Her eyes lingered on the camera lens, but they were distant now, like she wasn’t really seeing it. Like she was already somewhere else in her mind, farther away than the stars.

After a long beat, she reached for the console. Her fingers hovered for a second—then pressed the button.

The screen flickered off, and the silence rushed back in like a wave.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Y/N sat on the makeshift bunk she’d pieced together, her back pressed against the icy metal wall. The chill seeped through her jumpsuit, a sharp contrast to the constant, oppressive heat of M6-117. Her stitches pulled faintly with every shift of her weight, a dull, nagging reminder of how fragile her body had become. Heavy lifting? Out of the question. Even breathing too hard felt like it might tear her apart. Every motion had to be slow, deliberate, calculated—none of which came naturally to her.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the wall in an uneven rhythm, the faint sound filling the silence around her. The days had started to blur together, stretching endlessly into a haze of pain and exhaustion. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days. She had no way to tell how long she’d been sitting there, staring at the opposite wall and letting her thoughts wander like loose debris floating in zero gravity.

The ship was a wreck. It had been from the moment it slammed into the desert, but with every passing day, it seemed to decay further. Panels hung precariously from the ceiling, some blackened and melted from electrical fires. Wires dangled like severed vines, swaying faintly every time she moved or the ship groaned in the wind. Dust—or maybe ash—coated the cracks in the floor, a constant reminder of the violence that had brought her here.

The smell was the worst: a mix of burnt plastic, old sweat, and something metallic that she couldn’t quite place. It clung to her skin, her clothes, the walls. There was no escaping it.

She shifted slightly, wincing as her stitches tugged again. Her fingers fell still, resting limply in her lap, as her thoughts drifted to the others. She hoped they were safe now, wherever they were, but the not knowing gnawed at her.

Jungkook’s face appeared unbidden in her mind, sharp and vivid as though he were standing in front of her. His eyes came first—those strange, unnerving, beautiful eyes. They were like polished silver, catching the light in ways that didn’t seem possible. They’d always made her feel a little unsteady, like he could see through her, into the parts she tried to keep hidden.

Where was he now? Safe on some station, no doubt, his cocky smirk driving everyone around him crazy. The thought made her stomach twist, a mixture of relief and something else she didn’t want to name.

And yet, her mind refused to let him go. She remembered his laugh, low and rough around the edges, and the way his shoulders always seemed too broad for whatever cramped space they were stuck in. She thought about the time he’d leaned close to her after she went back for Captain’s log, blood dried to her knuckles, and licked the blood off her hand like it was nothing.

The memory hit her like a jolt, and she flinched, physically recoiling from the thought. What the hell was wrong with her? Thinking about him like that, here, now, when she didn’t even know if she’d survive the week?

Her jaw tightened, and she shook her head, forcing the memory down into the depths of her mind where it belonged. Jungkook was gone. Namjoon and Leo were gone. And she was here, alone, on a planet no one cared about, clinging to life in the ruins of what used to be a ship.

She ran a hand over her face, exhaling shakily. Forcing her mind away from Jungkook, she thought about Namjoon and Leo instead. Namjoon, steady and calm even when the world was crumbling around them. He’d been the one to keep everyone together after the crash, the one who made everything seem so miniscule in the grand scheme of things. Who hoped and prayed to a God that she openly mocked. Well, look where that got her.

She hoped he’d found some semblance of peace, though she doubted he’d ever let himself rest.

And Leo—sweet, quiet Leo, who’d seemed so afraid and brave all at the same time and had a laugh that could light up a room. She could still hear her humming softly to herself as she worked, could still see the way her hands moved with the boomerang that she’d grown fond of during the short stay here. She deserved safety. She deserved a future.

Y/N could only imagine what the girl faced on these ships that made her pretend to be a boy.

Y/N knew because she had her own stories to tell. It was a shame the two of them never got to bond. She was a good girl, a sweet girl, and needed a home like Jimin had.

Oh God, Jim… He must think I’m dead.

Her chest ached with the weight of it all. She wanted to believe they’d made it, that the escape shuttle had gotten them somewhere safe. But hope was a dangerous thing out here.

Her gaze drifted to the cracks in the floor again, her fingers tapping absently against her knee. The silence pressed in around her, heavy and suffocating, as her thoughts spiraled in slow, relentless circles.

She wanted to move. To do something—anything—to break the stillness. But her body rebelled against her, reminding her with every ache and throb that she wasn’t ready yet.

"Tomorrow," she muttered, her voice hoarse and thin in the empty room. "Tomorrow, I'll start again."

But tonight, she would sit in her makeshift bunk, staring at the scorched walls, and try not to think about the eyes she couldn’t forget or the faces she might never see again.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The horizon had that strange, muted glow again, the kind that came when only one of the planet’s three suns was awake. It wasn’t exactly dawn—not in the way she remembered it from Helion 5—but it was the closest thing this godforsaken rock could offer. Y/N sat on a flat patch of charred metal outside the remains of the Hunter Gratzner, watching the pale orange light crawl across the jagged landscape. She knew the second sun would start peeking over the horizon soon, and if her mental clock was still reliable, that meant it was about six or seven in the morning back home.

When the third sun joined the party, it’d feel more like late afternoon, and the heat would grow even more unbearable. For now, the air was heavy but tolerable. A small mercy. She stretched her legs out in front of her, boots scuffed and battered, and stared out at the endless expanse of sand and rock. Nothing moved out there, not even a whisper of wind. This planet didn’t do “gentle.” It just existed, glaring down at her with its triple suns, daring her to survive another day.

She sighed and got to her feet, wincing as her muscles protested. The Hunter Gratzner was more like a wreckage with a roof than a proper ship these days, but it was home—for now. She ducked through the hatch and into the cramped quarters, the smell of metal and stale air greeting her like an old, annoying friend.

Her first stop was the toilet. Not glamorous, but necessary. The vacuum system roared to life, sucking the waste away and beginning its overly complicated drying procedure. Y/N stood there, half-listening to the machine whine and hum, her mind wandering. When it finished, she glanced back at the result—a silver bag sealed tight like a little alien gift.

She tilted her head, studying it. An idea started to form, half-baked and ridiculous, but the beginnings of something useful. “Huh,” she muttered under her breath, filing it away for later.

The rest of the morning was dedicated to inventory. Again. It wasn’t exciting, but it was important. She crouched next to the ration packs she’d pulled from the wreckage over the last few days, stacking them into neat, slightly obsessive piles. Most of it was unremarkable—protein bricks, nutrient paste, the kind of stuff that made eating feel more like a chore than a comfort. But one case caught her eye.

“DO NOT OPEN UNTIL SOLVARA,” the label read in bold, almost cheerful letters.

Solvara. Y/N snorted. The odds of her making it to Solvara felt about as likely as the suns setting on this planet anytime soon. Still, she tapped the edge of the case thoughtfully before moving on. Maybe it was worth saving. For morale or whatever.

The hours blurred after that. She worked on autopilot, sorting through supplies, patching what she could, ignoring the gnawing hunger in her stomach. By the time the second sun was high enough to heat the air into its usual suffocating blanket, she found herself sitting in the semi-darkness of the ship, surrounded by stacks of rations and scattered tools. She stared at the walls, at the faint flicker of the broken console, at nothing in particular.

It was the kind of stillness that didn’t feel restful—just hollow. Her thoughts circled back to the same questions, the same numbers. How long could she last? How much water did she really have? What if the pressure machine gave out tomorrow? Or the oxygen pack? There were too many variables, and the math was starting to feel like an enemy she couldn’t outsmart.

Y/N shook her head, forcing herself to sit up straighter. Enough. She needed to do something, anything, to stop the spiral. “Get up,” she muttered to herself. Her voice was rough, dry from dehydration and disuse. “Come on. Move.”

She pushed herself to her feet, scanning the room with purpose now. Her fingers trailed over the scattered wreckage, pausing every so often as she searched for... something. There. Tucked into the corner of a storage compartment. A pencil. It was small and unassuming, the kind of thing that would’ve been forgettable on any other day.

But not today.

She yanked a notecard free from one of the ship’s dusty manuals, the paper slightly yellowed but intact. Back to basics. No screens, no touchpads, no malfunctioning tech—just pencil and paper, like it was the old days.

Y/N sat down at the tiny table bolted to the floor and started writing. The pencil scratched across the card, leaving behind numbers and symbols, equations that didn’t look like much but felt monumental in her mind. Water consumption rates. Oxygen usage. Repair estimates. She wrote it all down, no matter how grim the answers looked.

“Let’s do the math,” she whispered, her voice steady this time. She kept writing.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The camera was rolling again, its tiny red light blinking steadily as Y/N adjusted its angle. She leaned into the frame, her face slightly less tragic than it had been in previous recordings. She’d cleaned up—sort of. The layers of grime and sweat were still there, and her hair, while still tangled, no longer clung to her forehead like a second skin. She looked more human. Barely.

She exhaled slowly, straightened her back, and looked directly at the camera lens. “After arriving in New Mecca,” she began, her voice steady but edged with dry sarcasm, “my crew was only supposed to be awake for thirty-one days before going back into cryosleep. For redundancy, NOSA sent enough food to last for sixty-eight days. For three people.”

She paused, letting the weight of the numbers settle in her mind—and maybe for whoever might watch this someday. “So for just me, that’s three hundred days. Four hundred if I get creative.” Her lips twisted into a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Which means I still have to figure out how to grow food. Here. On a planet where nothing grows.”

Reaching for one of the mission briefs, she held it close to the lens. The bold, official lettering across the top read Co-Pilot, but just above it, in her own handwriting, the word “Botanist” had been scrawled in jagged letters. She tapped the scratched-out title with a finger. “Luckily, I’m the co-pilot for a reason,” she added with mock cheer. “God, I’m so glad I studied botany.”

Her voice turned deadpan, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “M6-117 will come to fear my botany powers.” She let the silence hang for a moment before cutting the feed.

The camera’s perspective shifted as Y/N carried it outside, the glare of the twin suns washing the screen in a harsh, blinding white before the auto-filter finally kicked in. Slowly, the barren world beyond the wreckage came into focus. Jagged red sands stretched endlessly in every direction, the dunes rippling like frozen waves. It was beautiful, in a way, but beauty couldn’t hide its cruelty. The planet was desolate, a hostile wasteland that mocked her with its emptiness.

Her boots crunched against the sand as she trudged forward, every step a deliberate effort. The sharp tug of her stitches with each movement was a constant reminder of her limitations, a small but insistent pain that kept her grounded in the reality of her fragile survival.

Tucked securely under her arm was a stack of sealed silver bags, their reflective surfaces gleaming in the oppressive sunlight. Compost material. Every single one of them. It wasn’t glamorous or pleasant, but it was necessary. She’d scrounged every bit of organic waste she could find over the past weeks, hoarding it like treasure. If her plan had even a sliver of hope, she would need it all.

Her destination loomed ahead: the Hab. It wasn’t much to look at—a mismatched structure cobbled together from the remains of the ship. Panels that once carried vital systems now served as patchwork walls. Observation deck glass had been repurposed into crude, dusty windows. Dented cryochamber lids insulated the roof. The entire thing leaned slightly to one side, as though daring the wind to knock it down.

But it wouldn’t. Y/N had made sure of that.

It had taken her weeks of slow, painstaking effort to build the Hab, every minute a struggle against her aching body and the unforgiving heat. Every bolt she’d fastened and panel she’d secured had been an act of stubborn defiance. It wasn’t pretty. It didn’t have to be.

As she stared at the Hab, she couldn't help but remember Koah Nguyen, her old crew mate. She still saw his face in her mind, the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about engineering, his hands always moving in that precise, methodical rhythm. Koah had been the pilot of the Starfire, and an engineer to boot. He’d been a walking encyclopedia of mechanics, someone who could fix anything—from starship engines to the tiny gadgets that never seemed to work quite right on the ship.

When she first met him, Y/N had been a little intimidated by how effortlessly Koah could repair everything. She’d been content to stay in her co-pilot role, figuring her job was keeping the ship flying while he handled the nuts and bolts of it. But Koah had a different idea. “You’re gonna need to know this stuff if you're gonna make it,” he’d told her one night, flashing her that crooked grin of his as he set down a welding torch. “A ship doesn’t fly itself, you know?”

The two of them had spent hours together, over the course of many trips, with Koah showing her the basics of engineering. He’d taught her how to patch a hull, how to recalibrate a plasma vent, how to wire a circuit when it wasn’t quite cooperating. At first, it was just another thing to tick off her list, but soon she found herself enjoying it. The rhythmic process of taking something broken and making it whole had its own kind of satisfaction. Sometimes, after long days of flying, they’d meet up outside of work and work on one of Koah’s welding projects. It wasn’t just about fixing things anymore. It was about creating something, about making beautiful things out of metal scraps and old, discarded parts.

Koah was an artist with metal. He’d often bring out pieces he was working on—small sculptures made of twisted pieces of scrap metal, intricate shapes that, at first glance, seemed like chaotic messes but came together in unexpected ways. Y/N had always admired his ability to see art in something that most people would throw away. They’d spend evenings together in his workshop—sometimes laughing, sometimes in complete silence as they both focused on their projects. He always made her feel like she was part of something bigger than just the ship and the mission.

If she had stayed on the Starfire, she wouldn’t be here now.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they lingered like a stubborn fog. He would’ve found it hilarious, Y/N thought, glancing back at the Hab. She could almost hear his voice teasing her now, the lighthearted tone he’d use when he saw her struggling with the wiring or the metalwork. “Not bad for a botanist,” he’d say, giving her a sarcastic wink, “but you still can’t hold a candle to my welds.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She could practically see him there, grinning, as he passed her a welder’s mask. They’d work on metal together until the stars outside began to dim, the quiet hum of the ship their only company.

Now, the Hab stood as a testament to everything Koah had taught her, and she hated to admit it, but it was comforting in a way. Each metal panel she’d carefully cut and welded into place, each beam she’d reinforced, each crooked corner—was a small victory. She could hear his voice now, an echo in her mind: “You’ve got this, Y/N. Just one piece at a time.”

And she had done it, one painful piece at a time. She had taken scraps and forged something functional from the wreckage, just as Koah would have.

It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t have to be. The Hab was a survival mechanism, built from the remnants of her past crew, from the skills Koah had shared with her. He’d never have imagined that she’d be here alone, making a home out of the wreckage of her ship, but Y/N could almost hear his voice in her ear: "You always did make the best of things."

Inside, the air offered little relief. The temperature was only marginally cooler, but it was enough to keep her moving. She placed the silver bags onto a counter made from a scavenged section of the hull, then walked to the water reclaimer in the corner. It hummed faintly as it dispensed lukewarm water into a container. Not fresh. Not clean. But drinkable.

She carried the container back to her makeshift kitchen station, where a rudimentary compost bin waited for its next grim addition. The bin was a patchwork creation, much like the Hab itself, built from leftover crates and reinforced with scraps of metal. Its lid hung open, waiting expectantly.

Y/N set the container down and stared at the silver bags. Her stomach twisted in anticipation of what came next. “Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “You can do this. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

Her fingers hesitated on the seal of the first bag, but she forced herself to tear it open.

The smell hit her instantly—a wave of rot and decay so pungent it felt like a physical blow. She gagged, stumbling back a step, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she choked out, her voice muffled behind her palm. “What have I done?”

The answer was obvious, but there was no turning back. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath of what passed for fresh air, and tore open another bag. The stench deepened, an unholy mix of decomposition and an odor she couldn’t identify but knew she’d never forget. She dumped the contents of each bag into the bin, one after another, her hands trembling as she worked.

By the time she finished, her stomach churned, her mouth dry. She leaned heavily on the counter, gasping for air that didn’t reek of death. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand, determined not to lose her nerve. The compost bin was full now, its contents a nauseating slurry of organic matter that sloshed slightly as she moved.

She stared at it, her nose wrinkled and her expression grim. This mess—this putrid, rancid soup—was supposed to be the start of her plan. Her first step in growing food on a planet that had never known life.

She let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over her face. “M6-117 will definitely fear my botany powers,” she muttered, her tone dry, almost bitter. She glanced at the camera perched on the counter, its red light still blinking. “Don’t laugh,” she added, pointing at it as though it could respond.

Turning back to the bin, she grabbed a stirring rod and braced herself for the next unpleasant step.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The dirt was dry. Too dry. Each grain of sand seemed to mock her, unyielding, as if the planet itself had conspired to make her struggle just a little bit harder. Y/N scooped it into the container with a small shovel she’d salvaged from the wreckage. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each scoop a reminder of the reality she couldn’t escape. The relentless heat pressed down on her like a weight, suffocating any energy she might have had. She’d been at this for hours, maybe days—it was impossible to tell anymore. The days had blurred together into an endless cycle of exhaustion and tiny victories, and she could no longer tell when one bled into the next.

With each scoop, the shovel hit the ground with a faint clink, like a tiny rebellion against the barren land. It wasn’t much—just a handful of dry dirt, nothing more—but it was all she had to work with. She winced as her wrist twinged from the impact, shaking it out before continuing, her fingers raw from the constant effort. She couldn’t afford to stop. Not yet. Not when she was so close.

The walk back to the Hunter Gratzner was short, but the container felt heavier with each step, its weight dragging at her arms. By the time she reached the airlock, her muscles were burning, her joints screaming in protest. She muttered something under her breath—probably a curse, probably aimed at the planet itself—and trudged through the airlock, her face set in grim determination.

Inside the Hab, she placed the container down in the corner she’d cleared a few days ago. The dirt spilled out in a dry cascade, joining the small pile she’d started. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It had to grow. She needed it to.

Time continued to pass in a blur, but by the time Sol 25 rolled around, the pile of dirt had grown considerably. Y/N stood in the doorway, arms full of another container, her face a mix of exhaustion and determination. The pile of dirt looked almost ridiculous in the center of her Hab, a mountain of Martian soil in the middle of a place that was meant to be her shelter. But it didn’t matter. Ridiculous was better than dead. She wasn’t going to let herself fail.

On Sol 28, the plan began to take shape. Y/N spread the dirt across the Hab’s floor, smoothing it out with her hands, the reddish dust caking beneath her nails as her fingers worked through the dirt. It was tedious work, but it was necessary. The heat made everything feel like it was happening in slow motion, each movement taking more energy than it should. She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, not even pausing to think about the pain in her body. Her stitches tugged uncomfortably, but she ignored it. There was no time to slow down.

As she spread the dirt, her gaze flicked toward the compost bin in the corner. The smell that radiated from it had only gotten worse in the past few days, growing stronger and more unbearable. She glared at it for a long moment, nose wrinkling. She had to deal with it. She had no other choice.

“Okay,” she muttered, steeling herself. “Let’s do this.”

Taking a deep breath, she opened the compost bin. The smell hit her immediately—sharp, rancid, and overwhelming. She gagged, instinctively covering her nose with her arm, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Every step she took, every task she completed, was part of the bigger plan. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the bin and began dumping its contents over the dirt. The mixture of decaying organic matter sloshed out in a wet mess, and her stomach churned. It smelled worse than she’d imagined, like something was rotting inside of her, and her throat burned. She stumbled back, gasping for air, but forced herself to move forward. She couldn’t afford to stop now.

“Oh God,” she wheezed, stumbling back a step. “That’s... that’s horrible.”

But she kept going. She opened bag after bag, each one worse than the last, the smell making her gag and her vision swim. She couldn’t even tell if the foul stench was from the bags or the sour taste in her mouth. When she finally finished, she stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. The pile was an ugly, soupy mess now, but it was a necessary evil. The dirt and compost would have to be the foundation for something greater. She wasn’t sure what that would be yet, but she had to try.

By Sol 31, the Hab had transformed. It wasn’t just the floor anymore; the dirt had spread across every available surface. The countertops were covered, the bunks cleared away and replaced with layers of soil. Even the table was buried beneath a thick layer of dirt. The Hab looked like a mad scientist’s lab, chaotic and strange, but there was no other way. She had to make it work.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, a knife in hand, carefully cutting into a pile of potatoes. She sliced them into neat quarters, making sure each piece had at least two eyes. The process was slow, meticulous, but it was soothing in its own way. It gave her focus, something to ground her mind as her thoughts often spiraled. She placed the potato quarters into neat rows in the soil, pressing them gently into the dirt. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t much. But it was a start. It was the first step in building something that could sustain her.

As she worked, her hand brushed against something small and metallic in the corner of one of the bunks. Curious, she reached down and picked it up. A data stick. She squinted at it, turning it over in her fingers. “Huh,” she muttered to herself. She hadn’t seen one of these in ages.

Plugging it into the computer, she leaned back in the chair, fingers crossed as the contents loaded. A list of files appeared on the screen, and she clicked on the first one. The screen flickered to life, and a cheesy title card filled the frame. It was Star Trek. She couldn’t help but laugh. Of course it was. Shields had loved this show. He’d talk about it for hours during quiet moments in between shifts—rambling on about warp drives and the Prime Directive like they were the truth, his excitement contagious. Y/N had rolled her eyes at the time, dismissing it as childish, a distraction from the mission. But now, as she sat there in the silence of her broken Hab, the sight of the show made her smile.

“Of course,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

It was strange, the little things that could make her smile now. She hadn’t known how much she’d miss these trivialities, these small bits of normalcy.

But then it hit her. The smile faded as the reality settled in. Shields would never watch this show again. He was gone, just like Captain Marshall, just like the rest of the crew. The weight of that truth hit her harder than the barren landscape outside. She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she pushed the thought away. There was no room for grief now. She had no time for it.

Instead, she leaned forward, determined, as if making a silent promise to herself.

“Star Trek it is then,” she said quietly, her voice just above a whisper. She would make it her new favorite show. And in doing so, she would keep a piece of them alive.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"The problem is water," Y/N muttered to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper. It came out thin, brittle, like the very air she was dragging into her lungs. It wasn’t the first time she’d voiced this frustration, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. There was always something, wasn’t there? Water. Food. Air. The constant gnawing feeling that the planet itself was conspiring against her, as if Mars resented her every step. Today, though, it was water. That was the issue that was eating away at her with the most urgency.

Her eyes narrowed as she adjusted the straps of her gear, the weight of the shotgun pressing against her chest. The weapon felt reassuring against her ribs with every step—solid, reliable. A reminder that she wasn’t entirely defenseless out here, not yet. It wasn’t much in the face of an unforgiving world, but it was something. She needed to keep moving, keep thinking. Focus. She had to focus.

The walk to the settlement was long—longer than it used to be—and the terrain was uneven, with cracks and ridges that slowed her pace. The air was thick with dust, the ground coated with a fine layer of reddish sand that clung to her boots like an ever-present reminder of the planet’s hostility. Every step left a trail, as if the planet itself wanted to track her every movement. The twin suns hung overhead, relentless, their heat pressing down on her, baking everything in sight. The light was harsh, unforgiving, and it made the shadows look sharper, more dangerous, more alive.

She tried not to think about the cracks in the stone, or what might be lurking within them—whether some predator was watching her from afar, or something worse was silently biding its time. The thought gnawed at her, but she pushed it back. There was nothing to be done for it, not right now.

Her breath came in shallow bursts, steady but strained. Her body was moving almost automatically now, one foot in front of the other, the path she’d been following for what felt like forever etched into her muscle memory. Her stitches tugged at her side with every step, but the discomfort was dull compared to the burning ache in her chest, the weight of the abandonment still heavy there.

When the settlement came into view, Y/N couldn’t help but pause. The place looked even worse than she remembered. It had once been a bustling outpost, a last chance for survival, but now it was a graveyard—metal skeletons, shattered hopes, rusting away under the relentless assault of the Martian elements. There was nothing left here, nothing but the bones of a failed dream. This was the place where Jungkook, Leo, and Namjoon had found the skiff that they used to escape. The same skiff they’d used to leave her behind. She could almost picture them, as if they were still here—Jungkook’s quiet determination, Leo’s nervous energy, Namjoon’s steady faith in something greater than themselves.

They had thought she was dead. Y/N couldn’t blame them for leaving. Not really. The wound she’d sustained—it had been deep, jagged, the kind of wound that should have finished her off. But somehow, she’d survived. She’d dragged herself back from the edge of death, stitched herself back together with the same stubbornness that kept her walking every day. She remembered Jungkook’s face as they left, that final glance filled with hesitation, confusion, guilt. He’d thought she was gone. And for a moment, she almost had been.

Shaking her head, Y/N forced herself to focus. She didn’t have the luxury of self-pity here. Not anymore. Not with survival on the line.

The settlement was eerily silent as she approached, the kind of silence that pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. The only sounds were the faint crunch of her boots against the dirt and the soft hum of the wind that stirred the dust in lazy eddies. Her shotgun felt heavier in her hands now, the weight comforting as she scanned the area. Every instinct in her screamed at her to stay alert. The place had been abandoned for weeks, but that didn’t mean it was safe. This planet had a way of surprising you when you let your guard down.

Y/N moved carefully through the wreckage, her eyes flicking over the scattered debris, looking for anything useful. The first thing she found was a set of blueprints, the faded paper curled and torn but still legible enough to be useful. They had to be. She rolled them up tightly, tucking them into her bag. Something else caught her attention—small, solar-powered gadgets, scattered haphazardly across a broken table. They probably wouldn’t do much, but they could come in handy later, and right now, she couldn’t afford to leave anything behind.

Her fingers brushed over the eclipse dial next. The metal was cold beneath her gloves, smooth and unyielding. She paused for a moment, her heart skipping a beat as memories of that suffocating darkness washed over her—an endless void that had pressed down on her, stealing her breath, her sanity. She hated that dial. It wasn’t just a tool; it was a reminder of that terrible night when everything had gone wrong. A symbol of how close she had come to losing it all. But sentiment didn’t have a place here, not anymore. With a resigned exhale, she grabbed the dial, shoving the memories to the back of her mind.

The next stop was where the skiff had been, the spot where it had been hastily abandoned in the wake of their escape. The sand around the area was still disturbed, the evidence of their flight still visible in the shifting dunes. Y/N scanned the ground, her eyes sharp, looking for anything they might have left behind. She needed anything that could help her survive—anything at all.

Her gaze landed on something distant, something that caught the light in a way that made her heart skip. She moved toward it, her boots crunching softly against the sand, her shotgun still at the ready, even though she knew the chances of something hostile were slim.

It was another sandcat—or rather, what was left of one. The vehicle’s frame was bent and crumpled, its front half caved in like it had been struck by something massive. It wasn’t going anywhere, not in this lifetime. But Y/N didn’t care about that. Her eyes swept over the wreckage, and then—there it was. Beneath the undercarriage of the sandcat, barely visible from where she stood, something caught her eye.

A Hydrazine tank.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew exactly what this meant. It wasn’t much, not yet, but it was something. Something that could be useful. She crouched down, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. The heat from the suns was relentless, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The connections on the tank looked fragile, delicate. This wasn’t a job for brute strength. No, she needed patience, steady hands—things she didn’t exactly have in abundance right now.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, trying to steady her breathing. “One thing at a time.”

Her fingers were trembling as she reached for the first connector, the metal cool against her skin. She took a slow breath, steadying herself before loosening the first piece, then the second. It wasn’t easy. The tank was heavier than she’d expected, the connections stubborn. Every movement felt like it took more energy than she had. But she kept going. She had to.

With a final grunt of effort, she managed to free the tank from the wreckage, setting it down carefully beside her. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, the effort of the task still making her pulse race. For a long moment, she just stared at the tank. Her mind raced with the possibilities. It wasn’t the solution to her water problem—not yet.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

“I’ve created one hundred and twenty-six square meters of soil,” Y/N said into the camera, her voice steady despite the rivulets of sweat dripping down her temple and disappearing into the grime streaked across her face. Dirt clung stubbornly to her skin, and her hair stuck to her neck in damp, wild tangles. She wasn’t trying to look triumphant—it wasn’t like there was anyone left to see her—but there was a flicker of pride in her voice anyway. “But each cubic meter needs forty liters of water to be farmable. So, I gotta make a lot of water.”

She paused, leaning forward slightly. The faintest twitch of a smile ghosted over her lips, but it didn’t last long. “Fortunately, I know the recipe. Take hydrogen. Add oxygen. Burn.” She held the word, let it hang in the air, her tone dipping into something darker. “Unfortunately… burn.”

Her breath escaped in a long sigh as she leaned back in the chair, turning her head to glance at the chaos behind her. The Hab looked less like a living space and more like the aftermath of an explosion in a junkyard. Piles of salvaged parts cluttered every available surface, jumbled together with tools, wiring, and half-built contraptions. At the center of it all, sitting smugly on her workbench like a prize, was the Hydrazine tank she’d dragged from the wreckage of the sandcat. It gleamed under the weak artificial light, a reminder of just how thin the line was between salvation and annihilation.

“I have hundreds of liters of unused Hydrazine,” she continued, gesturing toward the tank. “If I run the Hydrazine over an iridium catalyst, it’ll separate into N2 and H2…” Her voice trailed off as she stood, picking up the camera and swinging it toward her workbench. “Science time.”

The next few hours were a blur of sweat, ingenuity, and no small amount of duct tape. She started with the basics, piecing together a crude laboratory using whatever she could scavenge. Torn trash bags became the walls of a makeshift tent draped over her workbench, their edges secured with layers of tape. It wasn’t pretty, and it sagged in the middle, but it would do the job—or so she hoped.

“Not bad,” she muttered, stepping back to inspect her work. Her hands were already filthy, her gloves doing little to protect her from the grime that seemed to coat everything in the Hab.

Next, she turned her attention to ventilation. She’d torn an air hose from an old EVA suit earlier, the edges still jagged from where she’d ripped it free in a fit of frustration. Now, she taped it to the top of her makeshift tent, securing it to the ceiling to act as a chimney. “That’ll do,” she murmured under her breath, wiping her brow with her sleeve.

The room was quiet except for the faint hiss of the oxygen tank as she vented it. She leaned in close, sparking the gas with a few frayed wires from a battery pack. The flame that leapt to life was small but bright, and Y/N couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. “Whoosh,” she whispered, as if narrating the moment for an audience that wasn’t there.

The next step was more delicate. She adjusted her goggles, the scratched lenses fogging slightly as she exhaled. Her hands hovered over the Hydrazine tank, careful and deliberate as she started the flow. The liquid sizzled the moment it hit the iridium catalyst, disappearing in a flash of vapor that shot up the chimney. Her eyes followed the plume, watching as small bursts of flame sputtered out the other end.

“It’s working,” she whispered, her grin widening. Her gaze flicked to the instruments she’d rigged up—a mix of actual equipment and salvaged scraps—monitoring the temperature and flow rate with hawk-like focus. She repeated the process again and again, each cycle of vaporized Hydrazine bringing her one step closer to the water she so desperately needed.

By the time she sat down in front of the camera again, her muscles ached, and her hair clung to her face in damp, sweaty strands. The chaos of her makeshift lab spread out around her like a disaster zone. She wiped her goggles clean with the edge of her shirt, leaving a streak of dirt in their place. “Then I just need to direct the hydrogen into a small area and burn it,” she said, leaning slightly toward the lens. “Luckily, in the history of humanity, nothing bad has ever happened from lighting hydrogen on fire.”

She stared at the camera for a long moment, her expression blank but faintly amused. Then she blinked, shrugged, and continued. “Believe it or not, the real challenge has been finding something that will hold a flame. New Oslo hates fire because of the whole ‘fire makes everyone die in space’ thing. So, everything we brought with us is flame retardant. With one notable exception…” She reached off-camera and pulled a pack into view, unzipping it with practiced ease. “Namjoon Kim’s personal items.”

Her grin turned sharp as she pulled out a small wooden cross, holding it up to the camera and turning it over in her fingers. “Sorry, Mr. Kim,” she said, her tone mock-apologetic. “If you didn’t want me to go through your stuff, you shouldn’t have left me for dead on a desolate planet.”

She reached for the knife strapped to her belt and began shaving thin curls of wood off the cross, each stroke precise and steady. The sound of the blade against the wood filled the room, a rhythmic counterpoint to the hum of the equipment around her. “I figure God won’t mind,” she added, glancing up at the camera with a raised eyebrow. “Considering the situation.”

The knife moved slowly but deliberately, the pile of shavings growing with every careful pass. Y/N’s hands never wavered, her focus razor-sharp. This was survival, messy and dangerous and imperfect. And she’d take it over nothing every time.

Y/N was still at it, even though every muscle in her body begged her to stop. Her arms felt like lead, her shoulders stiff from hours hunched over her workbench. The air in the Hab was thick and stale, clinging to her skin along with the sweat and grime that had become her constant companions. Time blurred here—had it been hours? Days? She didn’t know, and she didn’t care to check. Survival was the only clock that mattered, and it kept ticking, whether she kept up with it or not.

She swiped her forearm across her forehead, smearing a dark streak of grease across her temple. Her hair clung to her damp skin, strands sticking out at odd angles where the heat and her helmet had flattened them earlier. Her lips were dry, cracked from dehydration, and her throat burned with each shallow breath, but none of that mattered. Not yet. Not until this worked.

The steps were second nature by now, her hands moving with the kind of automatic precision that came from repetition rather than confidence. Vent the oxygen. Ignite the torch. Burn the hydrogen. She murmured each step under her breath like a mantra, her voice thin and raspy, barely audible over the quiet hum of the equipment.

Her eyes flicked to the atmospheric analyzer. The numbers blinked back at her, steady and impersonal. She frowned, leaning in closer. Was that reading… higher than usual? It was a tiny discrepancy, just enough to tickle the edges of her exhaustion-fogged mind. She should have stopped. She should have double-checked the setup, recalculated the variables. But she didn’t. The weight of her own fatigue pressed the thought down until it slipped away entirely. It was fine. It had to be fine.

She struck the torch.

The explosion was immediate, a roar of heat and light that sucked the air out of the room. For a single, terrifying moment, Y/N was weightless, her body thrown backward as the force of the blast ripped through the Hab. She slammed into the wall hard, the impact jarring every bone in her body.

Her ears rang with the deafening aftermath, the sharp, high-pitched whine drowning out everything else. She lay crumpled on the floor, her chest heaving as she struggled to pull in air. Her lungs felt tight, her ribs screaming in protest with each shallow inhale. Her head spun, a dull ache blooming at the base of her skull where it had struck the floor.

For a moment, she stayed there, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unfocused eyes. Her brain scrambled to piece together what had just happened, but the only coherent thought she could muster was: I’m alive. Somehow.

She pushed herself upright slowly, her arms trembling with the effort. Every inch of her body ached, and her skin prickled uncomfortably where the heat of the blast had singed her clothes. The edges of her sleeves were blackened, threads curling like burnt paper. Her hair, already a tangled disaster, now sported uneven patches that smelled faintly of burnt keratin.

She groaned, a hoarse, broken sound, and crawled toward the camera, which, miraculously, had stayed intact. It blinked at her like a curious bystander, untouched by the chaos surrounding it.

Y/N collapsed in front of the lens, sitting back heavily against the wall. For a long moment, she said nothing, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Then, finally, she looked up, meeting the camera’s unblinking gaze.

“So,” she began, her voice scratchy and uneven, “yes. I blew myself up.”

Her lips quirked into a weak smile, the expression more wry than amused. She gestured vaguely toward the wreckage behind her. “Best guess? I forgot to account for the excess oxygen I’ve been exhaling when I did my calculations. Because I’m stupid.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before she forced them open again. The ringing in her ears hadn’t stopped, but she was getting used to it now, the noise settling into the background like white noise.

“Interesting side note,” she said, her tone conversational, almost detached. “This is how the Jet Propulsion Laboratory was founded. Five guys at Strikeforce Academy were trying to make rocket fuel and nearly burned down their dorm. Rather than expel them, General… East? I want to say East? Anyway, he banished them to Aguerra Prime and told them to keep working.”

She waved a hand lazily, the movement more a suggestion than an actual gesture. “And now we have a space program. See? I pay attention.”

Her gaze drifted back to the camera, her expression softening into something more resigned. “I’m gonna get back to work. As soon as my ears stop ringing.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she stayed where she was, her legs sprawled out in front of her and her shoulders slumped against the wall. The Hab was eerily quiet now, the earlier chaos replaced by a strange, heavy stillness. Smoke hung faintly in the air, curling upward in lazy spirals, and the faint smell of singed metal lingered in her nose.

Y/N let her head fall forward, staring at the ground with unfocused eyes. For a while, she just sat there, her body too tired to move, her mind too drained to think. She wasn’t done—not even close—but for now, she let herself rest.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Y/N was back at it. Her movements were steady, almost methodical now, but there was still a hint of tension in the way her shoulders hunched and her jaw tightened. She checked her math for the fifth time, fingers tapping absently against the edge of the table. The numbers were good. The O₂ levels were where they needed to be. Everything was in place.

She glanced at the camera, raising an eyebrow as if daring it to witness her fail. Then, with a small, humorless smile, she crossed her fingers. “Okay,” she muttered under her breath, wincing as she lit the torch.

Nothing exploded. She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Phew.” The Hydrazine started to vent, the faint hiss of the gas escaping into the controlled environment a comforting sound. Controlled chaos—her specialty now.

Hours later, she stepped back from the table, her body aching but her mind alight with hope. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, smearing sweat and grime into the creases of her skin. Her hands were clammy, slick with sweat that hadn’t been there earlier. Something caught her eye, and she turned toward the walls.

Condensation. Tiny beads of water dotted the smooth surfaces, glinting faintly in the artificial light. She reached out, tracing a droplet with her fingertip, watching as it slid down the wall. It felt surreal, like a rainforest trapped inside the sterile walls of her Hab. She blinked, then turned toward the water reclaimer.

Her hands trembled as she lifted the lid from the tank. It was full. Not just damp, not just a few measly drops, but filled with water. Her breath caught, and then, finally, she smiled. A real, honest-to-God grin that lit up her tired face. She let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking the heavy quiet of the room.

Over the next few weeks, time became a blur of movement and repetition. Days stretched endlessly under the triple suns of M6-117, each one bleeding into the next as Y/N worked tirelessly. The sun wouldn’t set again for another twenty-five years, not on this planet, but she’d already lived through its terrifying darkness once. She didn’t need a reminder of what the eclipse brought. For now, the constant daylight was her ally, even if the heat and pressure made every task harder.

Inside the Hab, every surface was a testament to her persistence. Soil covered the floors, tables, bunks—anywhere she could make room. Her equipment, rigged together with salvaged parts and duct tape, gave the place a chaotic, mad-scientist vibe. The atmosphere was a strange mix of desperation and ingenuity, every corner filled with evidence of her determination to survive.

Her days followed a relentless cycle. She vented Hydrazine, checked the readouts on her makeshift lab, and collected water from the reclaimer. She spread the precious liquid over the soil, making sure each patch got just enough to stay damp. She ate quickly, barely tasting the nutrient-dense food bricks she rationed so carefully. Then she went back to work.

She slept when her body forced her to, collapsing onto her makeshift bed in the corner of the Hab. Her dreams were restless, filled with flashes of her crew, the skiff disappearing into the sky, the dark shapes that had hunted them during the eclipse. But when she woke, she put the ghosts aside and pulled on her patched-up spacesuit. The air on M6-117 was technically breathable, but the higher pressure and lower oxygen levels made every task feel like running uphill. With the suit, she could work faster, longer, without the constant ache in her chest.

She hauled more dirt inside, her arms burning with effort as she carried the heavy containers. She vented Hydrazine again. She ate, she slept, and she worked.

Days sped by, a blur of movement and monotony, but Y/N never stopped. The pile of soil in the corner grew larger, spreading across the Hab like a living thing. Her hands were constantly dirty now, the dark grime of the soil embedded under her nails, a permanent part of her.

In the quiet moments, when the work slowed, her gaze would drift toward one particular patch of soil in the corner. It was smaller than the rest, a deliberate experiment within the larger chaos. She’d spent extra time on that spot, watering it carefully, checking the light, running her fingers through the dirt like she was coaxing it to life.

And then, one day, it happened.

The first sign was small. A tiny green sprout, barely breaking the surface, its fragile stem trembling as if unsure of its place in the world. Y/N froze when she saw it, her breath catching in her throat. She crouched down and all she could do was stare at her miracle.

Chapter 7: Bureaucratic Felchers

The days stopped having names.

There was just light and dark. Heat and cold. Movement and collapse.

She couldn’t say how long she’d been at it anymore. Time had collapsed into a series of repeated motions: unbolt, strip, replace, curse, repeat. Her internal clock was a blur of ration schedules and brief rest cycles that ended the moment she couldn’t pretend she was resting anymore.

The lander sat under the stretched-out canopy of solar blankets just outside the Hab’s eastern workspace, its scarred hull looming like a carcass she refused to bury. She’d stripped most of the exterior shell by now—sections so brittle they crumbled under the pressure of her gloves. Panels that looked intact from a distance splintered at the hinges or peeled away in sheets when she applied force.

Half the external structure was junk.

But the core housing—the pressure-stabilized assembly at the heart of the machine—was still sealed. Scratched. Warped. But sealed. The insulation foam was cooked, the seals half-melted, but the containment structure had held.

The battery, predictably, was dead, but it hadn’t ruptured. That alone felt like a gift from a higher power she didn’t believe in anymore.

She tried to pace herself in the beginning—take breaks, drink, sleep—but it didn’t last. The work demanded more. More time. More energy. More than she had.

Soon, she was working fifteen, sixteen hours at a stretch, broken only by the occasional alarm from her hydration monitor or the sharp stab of a leg cramp that forced her to stretch out flat on the floor, panting, until the pain passed.

Her hands were a mess. Even with gloves, the skin along the inside of her fingers had blistered, popped, and blistered again. She wore gauze wraps now, layered under the gloves, but they slipped, soaked through, left raw pink skin that smarted with every movement. Her forearms screamed at her with every turn of the wrench. Her shoulders throbbed deep into the joints from crouching over a bench not meant for this kind of work.

But she didn’t stop.

The Hab’s main workbench—once a place for routine diagnostics and simple component testing—was now a battlefield of salvaged parts and half-functioning assemblies. Old comms tubing lay in spirals on the floor, cut and re-routed to serve as makeshift wiring conduits. She’d gutted two of the rover’s secondary sensor pods to cannibalize their processors, then re-soldered their cores into the lander’s stripped data line.

One night—she thought it was night, though who could tell anymore—she stood in silence for ten full minutes before connecting a final junction. Not for drama. Just because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She was building life from rot. Trying to breathe warmth back into metal that had been dead for longer than some missions lasted.

She rigged an environmental heater into a low-output power conversion unit—something designed to condense drinking water, now barely stable enough to funnel current into the backup loop. It buzzed when she powered it up. Not reassuringly.

But it worked.

Sort of.

Everything she touched was either overheating or underperforming. The voltage swings made her flinch every time she touched a wire. The diagnostics gave inconsistent reads—some sensors simply refused to admit the last two decades had happened. One system thought it was still docked in low orbit. Another insisted it was 2089.

Still, she kept working.

One night, while rerouting the primary regulator through a bent coupling she’d hammered back into shape with a rock—because her mallet had cracked two days earlier—she felt her entire upper back seize. Just locked. The kind of pain that makes you stop breathing for a second. She sat on the floor for nearly an hour after that, her head resting against the hull, every part of her damp with sweat. She watched the condensation from her breath disappear into the dust as she muttered curses no one could hear.

But then she got up. Because that was what there was to do.

And finally, one night—if it was night—she reached for the last module. The connector clicked. A sharp, metallic snap. The system locked.

She sat back slowly, the stool wobbling under her weight. Her arms were trembling from the strain. Her fingers refused to uncurl. She looked down at her hands like they belonged to someone else. Her body felt hollowed out—like someone had rung her out and left her in the sun.

Her eyes drifted up to the camera perched near the edge of the bench. A little red light blinked, patient and steady. She’d forgotten it was still on. She hadn’t shut it off in days.

She cleared her throat, the sound raw and dusty.

“Okay,” she said. Her voice barely registered. “Step one’s done.”

She reached forward and wiped the dust off the control panel with the sleeve of her undershirt. The motion left a streak across the display. Her fingers hesitated, hovering over the first set of toggles.

She knew them. She’d studied them before any of this had gone wrong. Before this place had become a graveyard with no headstones.

They felt familiar. Like muscle memory.

She sat there for a long time with her fingers hovering over the switch, her hands trembling too much to move.

There were a dozen things that could go wrong. A surge, a short, a silent software fault buried so deep in the system it wouldn’t even show until after she burned the last of her power trying to coax a response. The casing had hairline fractures she’d sealed with melted patch resin. One of the relay boards still gave off a faint electrical smell when it ran for too long. And the capacitor network? Frankenstein’d from three incompatible systems and sheer spite.

But it was the only shot she had.

She wiped a shaking hand across her mouth, glanced at the camera she’d left running in the corner—more habit than hope—and leaned forward. Her breath fogged the scratched polyglass screen as she whispered, almost like she was afraid saying it too loud might scare the whole thing off:

“Let’s see if this thing still remembers how to breathe.”

She flipped the first switch.

Nothing.

Silence.

It wasn’t just absence—it was active. Thick. Like the air had turned solid and her lungs forgot how to work. A moment passed. Another.

A flicker.

One diode blinked red, then green. Then came the low, uneven hum of power crawling its way through dry circuits. Something deep inside the lander gave a metallic clunk, like a lung trying to remember how to inhale after drowning.

Her eyes snapped to the screen.

A strip of green. Then amber. Then more green.

The diagnostic panel lit up, stuttering to life like a drunk trying to stand. The screen flared—too bright, too sudden—then stabilized. Sections of the UI began to populate. Slowly. Glitchy. But real. She watched it happen in stunned silence, afraid to move. Afraid it might blink out and take her with it.

The environmental system chirped once. A faint, bird-like blip. Then it quieted.

The internal clock blinked 12:00:00.00 and began counting.

Wrong, of course. Meaningless.

But it was counting. It was counting again.

The status light went solid green.

She sat back, just a few inches at first. Her hands still hovered in the air. Like she’d been holding her breath for the entire time she’d been on this godforsaken planet and had only now remembered how to exhale.

A sound escaped her lips—small, unshaped. A hitch. Then another. She covered her mouth, but it didn’t stop.

The sob tore out of her like it had been waiting at the base of her spine for months.

She stumbled back from the bench, tripping over a coil of tubing, and hit the floor hard. The impact knocked the breath out of her, but it didn’t matter. She was laughing now, too, in jagged bursts between sobs. Both sounds came out at once—raw, involuntary, almost animal.

She curled forward, arms around her knees, forehead pressed to the cold floor of the Hab.

It was too much. Too much relief. Too much hope all at once. It hit like a fist to the chest.

For weeks—maybe longer—she’d existed in a kind of suspended animation. Endless work. Endless day. The suns never set here, not really. Time had stopped meaning anything. She slept when her body shut down. Ate when her hands couldn’t hold a tool anymore. The number in the corner of the camera feed was her only guess at how many days had passed, but even that was unreliable. Glitchy. Maybe corrupted.

And through it all, nothing. No voices. No signals. No contact.

Until now.

She forced herself to look up. Her vision swam. She blinked fast, dragging herself upright.

On the screen, the lander’s systems were still initializing. The comms package wasn’t fully online, but the routing table was back. She could see the interface. The channel protocols. The handshake logic waiting for input.

If she could get power stabilized and reroute signal through the rover’s external antenna…

She swallowed, chest tight.

She might be able to send a message.

A real one. With data. With coordinates. With proof of life.

She stood too fast. Her knees buckled and she caught herself on the workbench. Her head was pounding. She hadn’t had water in too long. Her body was still locked in the ache of survival mode.

But none of it mattered.

She stared at the word PROMETHEUS etched into the side panel, half-obscured by grime, and grinned through a throat gone raw.

“I knew you weren’t done,” she whispered, touching the metal with shaking fingers.

Then, louder—laughing now, breathless and cracked:

“You stubborn son of a bitch.”

She hit the internal comms switch. A familiar interface blinked to life. Crude. Prehistoric by Earth standards. But she could see the relay bounce path. If she timed it right, caught the orbiting NOSA satellite within window…

It was possible.

She could go home.

It would still take time. There were diagnostics to run. System calibrations. She’d need to stabilize the internal temperature and clean out every speck of contamination from the RTG lines.

But for the first time in— God, how long had it been?

She had proof she wasn’t dead. That she wasn’t forgotten. That she could be found.

The Hab was still dim, the world outside still blasted red, and her body still ached in a hundred places.

But now, sitting beside a resurrected lander and a flickering comms panel that was almost awake again, she felt something she hadn’t felt in what might have been months.

Alive.

Hope didn’t come in a flood. It came like the first breath after almost drowning.

And she was breathing again.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The garage at JPL was quiet in that loaded, unnatural way only rooms full of engineers can be—filled with the subtle clatter of keyboards, the hum of cooling fans, and the sound of too many people trying not to hold their breath too loudly.

It was nearly 3 a.m. in Pasadena, but no one had left. Not really. Some had wandered down the hall for coffee or stared blankly at the vending machine long enough to forget what they were doing, but they always returned. They always found themselves pulled back into this echoing concrete-walled space, drawn to the bank of monitors like moths circling a stubborn lightbulb.

Then the console screen on Station 4 flickered.

A few lines of garbled static, then clarity. Simple, unmistakable.

PROMETHEUS LOG: SOL 0 — BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED

TIME: 00:00:00

LOADING OS…

PERFORMING HARDWARE CHECK...

No one spoke. Chairs creaked quietly as people leaned forward. Someone dropped a pen, but no one looked.

The glow from the monitor bathed the surrounding metal worktables and diagnostic gear in pale light. The tension in the room thickened with each new line.

INT TEMPERATURE: -34C 

EXT TEMPERATURE: NONFUNCTIONAL

BATTERY: FULL

HIGAIN: OKAY

LOGAIN: OKAY

METEOROLOGY: NONFUNCTIONAL

SOLAR A: NONFUNCTIONAL

SOLAR B: NONFUNCTIONAL
SOLAR C: NONFUNCTIONAL

HARDWARE CHECK COMPLETE.

A few people exchanged glances. Those weren’t great numbers. But they were numbers.

Then came the line everyone had been waiting for:

BROADCASTING STATUS. LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL...

And then—

LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL…

LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL...

Each repetition landed heavier than the last. The silence that followed was mechanical, deliberate. Just long enough to doubt. Just long enough to feel the air leave the room.

Marco crossed his arms tighter across his chest. He hadn’t blinked since the first line. Next to him, Mateo leaned forward, elbows on the console, lips parted like he might whisper something to the machine, like it would help.

Then the screen updated:

SIGNAL ACQUIRED.

No one moved. It took a second to register. Maybe two. As if their brains had to run a boot sequence of their own to process it.

Then the room erupted.

It wasn’t cinematic. It wasn’t choreographed. It was messy and real and loud. People laughed, clapped, slapped backs, some shouting half-formed thoughts, some just standing there in stunned relief. One of the interns let out a string of expletives so enthusiastic that the older woman next to him laughed until she nearly fell over.

Mateo didn’t cheer.

Not at first.

He stared at the blinking cursor on the screen. The simple phrase just sitting there, plain and quiet in its plain white font: SIGNAL ACQUIRED.

Someone was alive out there.

He ran a hand down his face, the disbelief finally cracking into something softer. He exhaled and turned to Marco, who looked as if he hadn’t breathed at all until that moment.

“She did it,” Mateo said, voice low, dazed.

Marco just nodded, eyes still locked on the screen. His throat worked like he was trying to speak, but nothing came out. He was smiling. Barely. The kind of smile you get when something too impossible to hope for actually happens.

Across the room, the operations lead was already on comms, yelling over the cheers, coordinating signal lock. People were moving now—rushing to bring other systems online, pulling up bandwidth allocations, cross-checking satellite relays. The energy in the room had flipped. The air had a pulse now.

This wasn’t just a blip. This wasn’t telemetry from some dead rover buried in sand. This was a lander that hadn’t spoken in years.

This was Prometheus.

And it was talking.

Mateo sat down slowly, hands resting on the console, staring at the screen like it might vanish if he blinked. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter than before—almost reverent.

“Holy shit.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The sky above M6-117 never changed much—just an endless dome of pale, bleached orange that never gave way to stars. The suns didn’t set. They just circled and layered over each other, always hanging there, always burning.

Y/N stood outside the Hab, boots planted in powdery, red soil. Her hands were smeared with grease, fingertips raw under torn gloves. She tilted her head back, squinting up at the Prometheus lander, half-buried in its thermal shroud. Its high-gain antenna, silent for years, was moving.

Slowly. Stiffly. But moving.

The dish creaked on its axis as it shifted, metal joints grumbling under the strain of age and heat. The movement was uneven at first—hesitant, mechanical—but it found its target, angling toward the far western edge of the horizon.

Toward Aguerra.

Or a satellite. Or a station. Someone. Something that could answer.

She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Then the motor gave a final click, and the dish held steady. Pointed. Alive.

Her heart stuttered once—an involuntary jolt, as if her body had only just gotten the message.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, the words breaking out of her without permission.

She blinked, staggered back a step, her hands hovering in the air like she couldn’t decide whether to cover her mouth or punch the sky.

“ Oh my god !” she said again, louder this time, her voice cracking under the strain of adrenaline and disbelief. It came out half a laugh, half a sob.

Then something inside her just—broke loose.

She laughed. Loud and sharp, the sound echoing across the empty flats like it didn’t know how to stop. And before she could think about how absurd it might look, she started to move—spinning in place, arms out wide like a child in a summer storm.

She danced.

Not gracefully. Not even rhythmically. Just a wild, joyful release of motion—half stumbling, half hopping in circles as she kicked up clouds of red dust. Her boots slipped in the soft grit, sending her lurching sideways, but she didn’t care. She threw her arms in the air, let her head fall back, and howled something wordless at the bright sky.

She was grinning so hard it hurt.

The antenna was tracking. The diagnostics were holding steady. The telemetry stack had confirmed the signal pathway was stable. For the first time in—God, weeks, maybe months—she wasn’t guessing.

Someone was listening.

She didn’t know who yet. Didn’t know if it was NOSA, or a deep-space array, or some flyby relay picking up the call. But it didn’t matter.

She wasn’t just broadcasting into silence anymore.

There was a path.

A voice could travel it.

Her voice.

She staggered to a stop, out of breath, chest heaving with the effort of movement and the sheer weight of emotion she hadn’t let herself feel in so long. Her face was damp, though she couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. Probably both. Her legs were shaking. She didn’t care.

She wiped her sleeve across her face, dragging grit across her cheekbone, and looked up again.

The dish hadn’t moved.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Back at JPL, the mood in the control room had shifted from stunned disbelief to a kind of focused, collective obsession. Engineers were packed shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the wall of displays like spectators watching a patient’s vitals stabilize for the first time after a coma. The tension wasn’t gone—it had simply refined into something sharp and surgical.

And at the center of it all was Doug Russell’s station.

Monitors cast a sterile glow across his desk and the two chairs flanking it—though no one was sitting. Tim, JPL’s most tenacious and sarcastic comms tech, hunched forward as he typed, the clack of keys rapid and precise. His wiry frame leaned into the console like the machine might move faster if he willed it to. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week and had no intention of fixing that tonight.

Mateo and Marco stood just behind him, hovering like nervous family members outside an operating room—familiar enough with the system to understand what was happening, just far enough removed to feel useless.

“As soon as we got the high-gain response,” Tim said, voice calm despite the low buzz of urgency humming through the room, “I queued Prometheus for a full panoramic sweep.”

“You’ve received it?” Mateo asked, leaning in, voice clipped.

Tim didn’t look up. “Sure,” he said dryly. “But I figured we’d all rather watch a blank screen and slowly lose our minds than see what the first human message from M6-117 in five months might look like.”

Marco shot him a warning glance.

“Tim is,” he said through clenched teeth, “our finest comms technician. And we all deeply, deeply appreciate his wit.”

Tim didn’t miss a beat. “You can’t fire me, I’m already dead inside.”

“Tim,” Marco mouthed. Sharp. But not unkind.

Tim smirked and tapped the return key. “Incoming,” he said, almost offhandedly.

The screen blinked. Then—line by vertical line—a panoramic image began to assemble. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

The room fell still.

Engineers leaned in, mouths slightly open, trying not to hope too hard. A few people unconsciously held their breath. Somewhere in the back, someone whispered a countdown with each line of image loaded.

The first few strips were barren. Red dirt. Wind-raked ridges. The soft haze of dust in the triple-sunlight. Then the edge of a familiar structure began to resolve—a weather-scored dome, metal-stiff support ribs, just barely visible above the rise.

“There’s the Hab,” Marco said, his voice soft but rising, pointing to the curved outline.

Mateo was already scanning ahead. “Wait—what’s that?” he said, tapping the screen near a shadow that didn't look like a rock or any kind of equipment.

As the next lines loaded, the answer came into view.

A metal rod had been planted in the soil like a flagpole. Taped to it, fluttering just slightly in the wind, was a piece of plastic—something stiff, maybe from a packing crate or a suit panel—and on it, in unmistakably large handwriting, was a message scrawled in black marker:

I’LL WRITE MESSAGES HERE. ARE YOU RECEIVING?

The room collectively exhaled, a sharp sound like a crowd reacting to a sports goal—but no one cheered. It was quieter than that. More reverent. The kind of stillness that forms when everyone realizes they’re witnessing something that will be replayed for the rest of their lives.

More of the image loaded.

Two more signs had been propped beside the first:

POINT HERE FOR YES. POINT HERE FOR NO.

Mateo blinked hard. “She doesn’t even know if anyone’s actually watching.”

“She’s guessing,” Marco said, swallowing hard.

Tim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “We’ve got a two-hour round trip on comms. She’s asking yes-or-no questions with nothing but a fixed camera and hope.” He gestured toward the screen with a dry little shrug. “This is going to be the slowest conversation in the history of intelligent life.”

Marco shot him a look, but his expression had softened. He wasn't in the mood to argue. He just said, “Point the damn camera, Tim.”

Tim nodded once, then turned back to the keyboard. “Pointing the damn camera.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

She stood barefoot on the edge of the rover’s entry step, the arch of one foot pressed against sun-warmed metal, the other dug slightly into the soft red grit below. Her boots lay discarded a few meters away, kicked off in a moment of impulsive hope.

Her hands—still stained with marker ink, dirt, and grease—hung loosely at her sides, fingers twitching unconsciously as she stared across the makeshift clearing. Her jaw ached from how tightly she was clenching it. Her whole body was wound up like a spring.

The sun—one of the three—hung high behind her, stretching long triple shadows across the uneven ground. It was always day here. Always bright. She’d long since stopped pretending to track it properly.

But now, standing under that endless orange sky, she needed the seconds to slow. Just long enough for her to believe what she thought she’d just seen.

Because the camera turret on the Prometheus lander—dormant for longer than she’d been alive—had moved.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

It had been still when she finished setting up the message signs—just three stiff cards secured to scavenged rods and spare tie-wire, letters handwritten in black marker until the ink gave out halfway through the second sign. She’d traced the rest using a piece of carbon foil, pressing hard and hoping the message was still legible.

That was all she could do.

No uplink. No antenna feed. No voice. Just cardboard signs and an idea.

The turret shifted again. Slow. Careful. Mechanical.

It wasn’t sweeping the horizon. It wasn’t running a diagnostic pattern. It was deliberate.

Her breath hitched.

She stepped off the rover, boots forgotten, soles pressing into the hot dust. She could feel the sting of grit working into the cracks in her skin, but she barely registered it. Her eyes were fixed on the turret as it paused—held—and then tilted, degrees at a time, until it stopped.

Pointing directly at the “ YES ” sign.

She gasped—sharp, involuntary, like something had been pulled from her lungs.

Her legs gave out.

She dropped to her knees in the dust, the impact jarring but not painful. Her hands came up to her mouth, clamping down instinctively like they could hold back the emotion breaking loose inside her chest.

Her eyes blurred instantly with tears she hadn’t realized she was still capable of producing.

And then, without meaning to, she laughed.

It wasn’t elegant. It cracked halfway out of her throat and folded over into a broken, sobbing kind of sound—deep, guttural, and helpless. Her shoulders shook. Her body curled forward as the laughter tangled into crying and the crying gave way to silence again.

Not emptiness, though. Not this time.

Relief. Sheer, unimaginable relief. And something else. Something heavier.

Someone was out there. They’d seen her message. They’d understood. She wasn’t just screaming into the void anymore.

“I’m not alone,” she said, barely above a whisper. Her voice cracked, but the words came again. “I’m not alone .”

She stayed on her knees for a while, not moving, afraid that if she stood too soon the spell would break and the turret would turn away. She watched the camera, its stillness now more meaningful than any motion. It was listening. Watching.

The dust settled slowly around her. The heat beat down. The suns moved across the sky, layered and strange.

But nothing else mattered.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she was real to someone again. Not just a blip in a black box. Not just telemetry noise on a server somewhere.

Someone had seen her.

By the time she made it back inside the Hab, her limbs felt like they were filled with sand. Heavy, sluggish, every motion slightly delayed, like her body hadn’t caught up with what her heart already knew.

They saw her.

She hadn’t even realized how much she'd needed that until it happened.

Inside, she peeled off her gloves and wiped the dust from her face with the inside of her elbow. It smeared. Whatever. She’d stopped caring about the state of her face somewhere around sol-whatever-the-hell. She squatted beside the food drawer, muttered a half-hearted apology to the ration packs she’d been ignoring, and pulled out a pouch of rehydrated potato stew.

“Dinner of champions,” she muttered.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, the still-warm packet in her lap. Steam rose gently from the top as she peeled it open.

She raised it toward the overhead light like a toast. “To Prometheus. To whoever’s out there. And to me. For not dying in a crater.”

She took a bite. It tasted like cardboard and regret, but she smiled through it. She was so hungry, and she hadn’t noticed until now. The emotional crash after the high of connection hit like a body blow. Her hands were shaking from fatigue, from adrenaline, from months of pent-up everything.

As she chewed, her eyes wandered to the far wall, where she’d arranged her makeshift “crew.”

There was Captain Stanley, the helmet from her EVA suit, perched on an upturned crate. The dark visor reflected a ghost of her own face. She lifted her stew pouch.

“To you, Cap. For keeping me grounded.”

Propped beside him was Pam the Vent, the cracked exhaust duct that had been making a haunting whine during night cycles until she taped a fork into it. Now it made a different, more tolerable whine.

“Pam, you were right. I should’ve believed the signal would go through.” She winked at the vent. “You’re always right. Moody, but right.”

A beat.

“You still sound like a dying cat when the fans kick in, though.”

Near the airlock, Susan—her ruined boot from the first week, long since deemed unsalvageable—sat filled with loose bolts. She saluted it solemnly. “Susan, your sacrifice shall not be forgotten.”

She exhaled a laugh, small but real. The sound startled her. She hadn’t heard herself laugh for no reason in a long, long time.

Only the rover, Speculor-2, remained unnamed. She referred to it only by its designation. A sign of respect. Or maybe distance. She wasn’t sure anymore.

“You don’t get a name,” she said aloud between bites. “You’re the only one still doing your damn job.”

The rover sat just outside the Hab, its silhouette barely visible through the dusty porthole—motionless, but unmistakably there. Same position she’d left it in after dragging Prometheus into place. Just behind it, the lander’s antenna still pointed skyward, unmoving now, but resolute. Silent, but not alone.

Y/N leaned her forehead against the window, her breath fogging a patch of glass. The heat from the rehydrated food she’d finally forced herself to eat was slowly working its way back into her core, settling in her chest, behind her ribs.

Her voice, when she spoke, was soft—half to herself, half to the rover outside. “I mean, I could name you,” she murmured. “But let’s be honest, that’s just asking for it. The last three things I named either exploded, got moldy, or betrayed me by freezing solid in the middle of a repair.”

She watched the still form of Speculor-2 through the haze of dust and reflected light. “Besides,” she added, almost apologetically, “you’re the only one that hasn’t let me down. I think that earns you your full title.”

The silence on the other side of the glass didn’t answer. But it didn’t feel empty, either. Not anymore.

She finished the meal in slow, methodical bites—every muscle still recovering from adrenaline. When the pouch was empty, she tossed it toward the waste bin. It hit the rim and bounced onto the floor. She stared at it. Didn’t move. Just let it be.

Instead, she crawled toward the center of the Hab, dragging her tired limbs like dead weight, and pulled a flattened ration box from beneath her bunk. It had been waiting there for days—saved for a moment when she had something worth putting on it.

She grabbed her old utility marker, shaking it a few times until the ink grudgingly agreed to cooperate, and began sketching out a rough circle. Segmented. Crude. But functional.

“Okay,” she muttered, drawing in more detail as she worked. “Here’s the plan. You,” she said, tapping the rough shape of the lander on her makeshift diagram, “are now my communications officer. Congratulations. No training, no pay, but full responsibility for the emotional well-being of a stranded astronaut.”

She paused and looked toward the lander through the port again.

“Don’t screw it up.”

She kept drawing. Lines, angles, numbers. She spoke as she worked, narrating like she was teaching a class no one had signed up for.

“We’ve got a two-hour delay round-trip. So no witty banter, no debates, and definitely no sarcasm unless it’s really, really well-timed.” She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and kept going. “The camera can rotate a full 360. I’m dividing it into sixteen equal sectors—hexadecimals. Each one corresponds to a character. You rotate to a segment, that’s your letter. Point, pause, reset. Repeat.”

She sat back, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. “It’s going to be slow. Like, glacial. But it’s language. It’s mine. It’s… contact.”

Her gaze drifted toward the far corner of the Hab. The broken vent—Valerie—let out its usual high-pitched whine. She smiled.

“You hear that, Val?” she said. “We might actually get a conversation going in here that doesn’t involve me assigning personalities to heating components.”

She looked over to the EVA helmet she’d propped up on a supply crate weeks ago. Its black visor faced her like a mirror.

“Stanley, don’t look at me like that. I know it’s weird. It’s been weird for a while.”

A pause. A breath.

“But it’s working. Something’s working.”

She turned on her personal log, the soft red light blinking awake on the little camera perched above the console. It had been dark for a while. No point in recording when you’re not sure anyone’s out there to listen.

But now?

She leaned in close, brushing dust off her face with the back of her hand. Her hair stuck to her temples, damp with sweat. Her eyes were still rimmed with exhaustion, but they were clear. Focused.

“Day… unknown,” she said, voice hoarse but steady. “The suns never set here, so time’s been more of a suggestion than a measurement. My sleep cycle’s shot, I think I hallucinated a second Valerie the other night, and I’ve been arguing with a space boot I named Susan.”

She smiled—wry, tired, but real.

“But today, the Prometheus camera responded. It moved. It pointed to YES.”

She let the words sit there, hang in the air like they deserved to.

“That means someone saw my signs. It means someone’s listening. I don’t know who it is yet. Could be NOSA. Could be a university relay team. Could be a maintenance AI that accidentally found me while looking for a comet.”

She chuckled quietly, then tapped a finger against her temple.

“Doesn’t matter. Someone’s there. I’m not just shouting into dust anymore.”

She reached over and picked up the sheet of cardboard with her communication circle. The lines were uneven, hand-drawn, but precise enough to work.

“I’m going to teach Prometheus how to talk again. One letter at a time. Using hexadecimals. Because 26 letters don’t fit evenly into 360 degrees, and I’m not about to eyeball that math. Base sixteen is cleaner. And besides…” She shrugged. “Old code habits.”

Her tone softened, eyes trailing back to the camera feed from outside.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.

She didn’t say more. She didn’t need to.

She turned off the recording and sat there on the floor, cross-legged, arms folded over her chest, head tipped back against the wall.

Outside, through the porthole, the rover stayed still. The lander didn’t move.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The red sands of M6-117 stretched outward in every direction, as if the world had been poured out in one long, unbroken breath and then left to harden under the brutal glare of three unrelenting suns. There was no horizon here—at least not one that felt real. The light smeared everything flat. There were no true shadows, just overlapping ghosts in odd directions, triple-cast silhouettes that shifted slightly as the suns moved in their slow, endless circuits across the sky.

The planet wasn’t quiet, exactly. The wind was a constant whisper—soft, dry, hissing over the sand like it was trying to wear everything down to bone. Even the stillness had teeth.

Out past the main hatch, near the base of the Prometheus lander, Y/N crouched in the dust. Her knees ached in the suit’s rigid frame. Her fingers cramped every time she tried to flex them, the gloves thick and uncooperative. But the cards had to be exact.

Sixteen of them in total, each one an off-white square marked with thick, blocky characters in permanent ink: A through F, 0 through 9. A hexadecimal ring. Not elegant, but math rarely cared about elegance.

She placed the final card—“F”—into position, carefully tucking the corner under a flat, palm-sized rock. Each square had its own weight, each stone tested and re-tested. The Hexundecian wind wasn’t fierce, just persistent and erratic. It could sit calm for hours, then flick sideways out of nowhere and scatter your careful intentions like confetti. Earlier that week, she’d watched the “E” card lift off like a leaf and skip across the plain, fluttering just out of reach as she’d chased it, cursing until she was breathless.

Lesson learned.

She stood slowly, knees groaning with effort, and took a few cautious steps back. The circle wasn’t perfect—she wasn’t a machine—but it was close. From the camera’s perspective, perched atop the Prometheus turret, the spread would be clear, each card aligned just enough to be distinguishable in a 360-degree sweep.

Her gaze drifted up to the turret, still and silent for now.

But it had moved yesterday.

It had seen.

“I figured one of you had an ASCII table lying around,” she said, her voice muffled by the suit but still laced with something dry, almost playful. “Or a sixth-grade understanding of encoding, at least.”

She allowed herself a tired, wry smile. Then turned, giving the cards one last look—checking for shifting rocks, bent corners, anything out of place—before making her way back toward the Hab.

Inside, the suit came off in stages. Exhausted, breathless stages. Every joint creaked. Every zipper fought her. The synthetic inner lining peeled away from her skin like duct tape from fabric. When she finally stepped free, her undershirt clung to her back, damp with sweat, dust pressed into the creases of her elbows and neck.

She didn’t bother with a full decontamination cycle—just a rinse of water over her face and a few swipes with a towel. There wasn’t enough energy left in her limbs for a full scrub. The dust wasn’t the priority tonight.

She dressed slowly, pulling on a clean pair of NOSA-issue pants—gray, thinning at the knees—and a soft, over-washed t-shirt with the faded logo of a launch site she hadn’t seen in years. The neckline had stretched out. One shoulder slipped as she moved. She didn’t fix it.

Then she crawled onto Gregory Shields’s old bunk. It was narrower than hers, tucked beneath a low storage shelf, but it felt safer somehow. Quieter. The kind of place where someone had lived with intention.

It still smelled faintly of antiseptic wipes and the faint tang of synthetic polymer—a smell she’d come to associate with him. She wasn’t sure whether it clung to the bed, or whether the Hab itself had chosen to remember.

The laptop sat just where she’d left it, perched precariously on top of a stack of filtered water cartridges. It flickered to life with the usual delay, the fan sputtering once before giving in to the boot cycle.

She leaned forward and watched the screen resolve, file folders loading one by one.

HabMaint_Logs_2_FINALREAL

Speculor_Backup_NewestActual 

DoNotDelete_GS

And then, tucked inside a dusty log archive, buried three directories deep: a folder labeled simply, “ Extras .”

Curiosity tugged at her hand.

She opened it.

The contents loaded slowly, line by line: a list of .exe files and text documents. The file names were unmistakable.

Zork II. Leather Goddesses of Phobos. Planetfall. A Mind Forever Voyaging.

She blinked. Then laughed—quiet at first, then fuller, warmer than she’d expected.

She turned her head toward the small camera she’d propped on the crate beside the bunk, just far enough back to catch her expression.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, holding the laptop up slightly like a game show host revealing a prize, “I give you the hidden emotional archive of Commander Gregory Shields.”

She gave the screen a reverent shake of her head. “Turns out our fearless leader was also a closet nerd. This is like the Smithsonian of digital loneliness.”

She let the laptop fall back into her lap and smiled, eyes scanning the list again.

“I mean, I get it,” she said, more quietly now. “You run diagnostics six times a day. Inventory every bolt and meal pouch. But eventually, you just… want a story. Even if it’s one where you’re alone in a white house with a boarded-up door.”

Her hand hovered over the mousepad.

Then she clicked.

The screen blinked and shifted to a black window with stark white text.

You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door.

Y/N stared for a long moment.

The words felt like a heartbeat. Familiar. Steady. Someone had been here before her. Someone had typed into this same blinking cursor and waited for a reply that wasn’t human but was, in its own way, comforting.

She grinned. Not mockingly. Just with recognition.

“Well,” she murmured, “I guess I’m not the only one trying to talk to something that doesn’t talk back.”

She typed:

LOOK AROUND

The response appeared instantly.

You are in an open field...

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, then leaned back against the wall, chin resting in one palm. The faint whine of the broken vent in the corner—Valerie, as she’d named her—filled the silence between lines.

The stack of cardboard hexadecimals sat nearby, their marker ink still drying in spots. Tomorrow, she’d send another message. One letter at a time. One slow, careful spin of a camera. She had a system now.

For now, though, she played. Just for a little while. A game meant for solitary people. Text and choices. Words typed into voids.

She was still alone, but for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel so endless.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Back at JPL, the room was taut with anticipation. The kind that made people forget to blink, forget to sip the coffee cooling in their hands. Consoles hummed, monitors flickered, and somewhere across the room, someone whispered a half-joke and then immediately regretted it.

At Doug Russell’s station, the tension crystallized. He leaned in close to his screen, an ASCII chart dog-eared beside him, one hand flying across the keyboard, the other adjusting Prometheus’s command queue.

“Incoming,” he muttered, not turning around. His voice was low but firm, the verbal equivalent of threading a needle at 2 a.m. with caffeine instead of sleep.

Behind him, Marco and Mateo stood shoulder to shoulder, silent and tense. Watching. Waiting.

On the main monitor, the live camera feed from Prometheus began to move. Slowly, methodically, the turret scanned across the circle of hand-lettered cards that Y/N had arranged in the dust of M6-117. Each card—labeled with a number or letter from the hex set—was captured in a frame. Pause. Capture. Move. Pause. Capture again.

It was absurd. And beautiful.

Inside the Hab, Y/N crouched at the window, watching the turret turn. The movement was stiff, but deliberate—like an old man raising a hand to wave. It was working.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, dust still clinging to her suit, and smiled.

“Not complaining,” she muttered, watching the turret complete another slow sweep. “I’ll take interpretive dance over silence.”

Later, back inside, she stripped off the outer layer of her suit and settled at her workstation, cross-legged in front of her notepad, the laminated ASCII reference guide spread out beside her like a sacred text. Each number pointed to a character. She traced the values with a fingertip, checking twice before she committed to anything in ink.

The message formed one word at a time.

H

O

W

She paused.

A

L

I

V 

E

She stared at the page.

Her breath caught, a soft, involuntary sound that surprised even her. “How alive,” she repeated, barely a whisper.

It was such a simple question. But it undid her.

She sat still for a long time, pen hovering just above the paper. Then, slowly, she began to write.

Impaled by big monster bone. Dragged away into dark. Hid in cave. Civilians had reason to think me dead. Not their fault.

She scratched the last word three times before she was satisfied it looked like she meant it.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Later that night, she climbed into the Speculor rover and hooked into the command system. The console flickered to life. Her fingers, still sore, flew over the keys, typing out each carefully chosen instruction.

The screen glowed blue in the dark.

She turned the dashboard camera toward her. It was propped with a zip tie and a strip of old sensor tape. Shaky but serviceable.

“Now that we can have more complicated conversations,” she said, breath fogging the inside of her faceplate just a little, “the smart people at NOSA sent me instructions on how to link the rover with Prometheus’s systems. Just a tiny little tweak—twenty lines of ancient operating system code—and boom.”

She gestured toward the screen. “We’re in business.”

As if on cue, a new message rolled onto her terminal.

Dr.Y/L/N, this is Mateo Gomez.

She froze.

For a moment, it felt like the rover stopped breathing. Like the world went still. Her hands hovered over the keyboard. Her pulse pounded in her neck.

The next line arrived seconds later.

We’ve been watching you since Sol 63. The whole world is rooting for you. Amazing job getting Prometheus. We’re working on rescue plans. Meantime...

She read each line like it might vanish if she blinked. The words were surreal. Gentle. Real.

We’re putting together a supply mission to keep you fed until Helion Nexus arrives.

She let out a ragged breath, something between a laugh and a sigh of disbelief. Then typed back, quickly:

Glad to hear it. Really looking forward to not dying.

Back at JPL, Doug let out a laugh as he read the response aloud, and the garage erupted in scattered chuckles. A few of the techs even clapped, unprompted.

But the moment sobered as a new line appeared on-screen from Y/N:

How’s the survivors? What did they say when they found out I was alive?

Mateo’s smile faded.

He looked at Marco, whose face was unreadable. The older man rubbed his temple with two fingers and exhaled slowly.

“Tell her,” he said. “But carefully.”

Mateo hesitated, then typed.

They are safe on New Mecca. We haven’t told them you’re alive yet. We didn’t think it was their business. Your cousin doesn’t know either. He needs to stay focused on his mission.

Y/N stared at the reply.

The words didn’t register all at once. They landed in pieces.

Her hands trembled. She blinked. Then, without thinking, her fingers slammed the keyboard.

WHAT THE F—

She caught herself. Backspaced. Hard. But the anger wasn’t gone. It sat in her chest like a fist. She leaned forward, jaw clenched, and typed again.

What the fuck is wrong with you fuckers.

Back at JPL, Doug winced as the message came through. Several people turned to look at Mateo, who rubbed his forehead with a groan. He typed, carefully:

Doc, please watch your language. Everything you send is being broadcast live to the public. Global feed.

Y/N narrowed her eyes at the screen. The rage hadn’t gone anywhere, but she forced herself to breathe. Once. Twice. Then she typed:

Tell the world I’m deeply, sincerely sorry for my colorful language. You bureaucratic fletchers. Also, go fuck yourselves. Politely.

She hit send.

And then she leaned back in her seat, hands shaking, chest burning, and laughed. Bitter. Exhausted. Free.

It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t composed.

But it was honest.

And for the first time in a long time, somebody heard her.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

At NOSA headquarters, the hum of fluorescent lighting pressed down on everything like a second atmosphere. The office felt smaller than usual—walls lined with outdated charts, satellite composite maps curling at the edges, and one stubborn water stain above the far vent that Yoongi had started to take personally.

He rubbed his temples hard with the heels of both hands, then slammed the receiver back into its cradle. The sound cracked through the room, sharp and final.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, long and slow, like he was trying to bleed tension out of his ribs.

The door opened without a knock. Creed stepped inside, a tablet tucked under one arm, brow already furrowed. He paused when he saw the look on Yoongi’s face.

“Bad call?”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. He turned his head slightly, eyes still on the phone, as if it might ring again just to spite him.

“I just had to explain to the President of the United States what a ‘bureaucratic felcher’ is,” he said flatly.

Creed’s expression flickered—half horror, half sympathy.

“I made the mistake of Googling it,” he admitted after a beat. “Regret was immediate.”

Yoongi didn’t laugh. He just scrubbed a hand over his face and sat forward, elbows on the desk, tension still coiled tight in his neck. His eyes were bloodshot. The long days—and longer nights—of political firefighting were starting to show.

Creed stepped further into the room and shut the door behind him.

“She’s not wrong,” he said, his voice quieter now. “We’ve waited long enough. We need to tell the survivors. And her cousin.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He stared down at the scuffed surface of his desk, where his notepad sat open beside a half-eaten protein bar. The pad was filled with names, coordinates, scribbled notes, and one line circled three times: DON’T TELL YET .

He tapped a pen absently against the corner of the desk.

“She’s stable,” Creed said, pressing. “She’s coherent. More than that, she’s functional. She’s asking hard questions. And if we don’t start giving her straight answers—”

“She’s going to stop trusting us,” Yoongi finished.

Creed nodded.

Yoongi sighed and leaned back again. The chair creaked.

“You’re only pushing this now because Mateo’s in D.C. and can’t push back.”

Creed didn’t flinch. “He’s too close to her. You know that. He’s been since the beginning.”

“He’s also the only one who’s managed to keep her talking without her telling the world to go fuck itself in five languages.”

Creed dropped the tablet onto the desk. “Then let her. If she has to scream at someone, let it be us. What matters is that she knows she’s not being kept in the dark. That she’s not being lied to.”

There was a long silence.

Outside, the hum of activity from the floor buzzed on—keyboard clicks, muffled voices, the occasional printer groaning to life. But in Yoongi’s office, the air had gone still.

He looked up finally, met Creed’s eyes, and gave a small, tired nod.

“Okay,” he said.

Creed’s shoulders relaxed just slightly.

Yoongi pushed the notepad aside and grabbed a clean sheet.

“Draft a statement. We’ll have to vet it through the comms team, but let’s get it moving.”

Creed turned to go, then paused at the door.

“She asked us for the truth,” he said. “Let’s give her at least that much.”

Yoongi didn’t respond, but as the door closed behind Creed, he exhaled again—this time quieter.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The Starfire drifted in perfect silence, its silver hull gliding along a stable arc through the deep, indifferent black of space. Stars burned cold and distant beyond the reinforced windows, too far to feel real. The ship didn’t so much cut through space as inhabit it — a man-made ember, tiny and determined, carrying seventeen people and every hope pinned to them.

Inside, though, serenity was in short supply.

Commander Jimin Park stood near the forward observation deck, one hand braced lightly on the edge of a console, the other curled against his jaw, thumb pressing absently into the line of his cheek. His face was still, unreadable, but the tension in his stance said enough. He wasn’t really looking at the stars. He was staring through them.

The voice crackled in from the comms, tinny and practical.

“Commander Park, come in,” said Valencia Cruz, comms officer, from elsewhere on the ship. Her tone was clipped, businesslike — but even over the static, there was an edge of anticipation.

Jimin blinked, then leaned forward and keyed the panel. “Go ahead.”

“Data dump’s almost finished,” she said. “Personal packets are coming through now.”

“Copy that. On my way.”

He pushed off with a practiced ease, shoulders brushing past the low lighting strips overhead. As he floated toward the Semicone-A ladder, he caught a glimpse of Khoa Nguyen ahead of him, already heading the same direction.

“You’re in a hurry,” Jimin noted as he caught up.

Nguyen glanced over his shoulder and flashed a crooked grin. “My kid turned three yesterday. I’m hoping there’s video. Maybe cake. Hopefully something not entirely destroyed by compression.”

Jimin gave a short nod, then turned his focus to the transition zone. As they reached the midpoint of the ladder, the artificial gravity gently reasserted itself — not full weight, but enough to give everything a sense of down. They moved more cautiously, boots finding purchase, hands steadying themselves on the rails.

The rec room was already filling by the time they arrived — not with noise, exactly, but with a kind of restless energy. Voices were lower than usual, movements quicker. People took their usual seats, leaning in toward their terminals, waiting for whatever fragments of Earth they could still call their own.

Val was already at the main console, typing fast, a mug of tea steaming beside her, mostly forgotten.

“Okay,” she announced, glancing up at the gathered crew. “Personals are in. Dispatching to your inboxes now. If anyone gets a corrupted file, don’t panic. Just flag it and I’ll resend.”

“Make sure to skip Zimmermann’s disturbing German niche fetishes,” someone muttered near the back.

Val didn’t even look up. “They’re telemetry logs, and they’re beautiful,” she said in a flat, mocking monotone.

Armin Zimmermann, who had just opened his tablet, let out a sigh without even raising his head. “They are spacecraft health reports,” he muttered under his breath.

Val shot a quick smirk in his direction, then paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Wait,” she said. “This one’s different.”

The room shifted. Small sounds stopped — the clink of a spoon in a mug, the rustle of someone adjusting their shirt.

Val’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a voice memo. Not tagged to anyone individually. Says it’s for the whole crew.”

Jimin stepped closer to the console, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. His fingers rested lightly on the back of Val’s chair, but his eyes were locked on the screen.

“Play it,” he said, low.

Val hesitated—just a second too long—then tapped the key.

The speakers crackled, then cleared.

The voice that filled the room was familiar. Calm, professional. Creed Summers—NOSA’s mission coordinator. A voice they were used to hearing twice a week with updates, mission briefings, and dry observations that occasionally bordered on wry. But this time, it was different. The tone was flatter. Strained. Like someone trying to walk across thin ice without making a sound.

“Starfire,” Creed said, “this is Creed Summers. I’ve got an update. No way to ease into it, so I won’t.”

There was a pause. Just a breath.

“Y/N Y/L/N is alive.”

It didn’t crash over them so much as snap the air taut. Like a fault line giving way.

Khoa Nguyen froze, tablet still in hand, thumb resting against the screen like he’d forgotten what it was for. Across the room, Hoseok Jung slowly sank back into his chair, blinking like he hadn’t heard it right. Val’s hands hovered over the keyboard, suspended in midair.

No one moved. No one spoke.

“She’s alive,” Creed repeated, quieter this time. “Stable. Lucid. Communicating.”

Jimin didn’t flinch, but his grip on the back of the chair tightened. His knuckles paled. His face, usually so composed it bordered on unreadable, had gone still. Hollow.

“We’ve known for just over two months,” Creed continued. “That decision—keeping it quiet—came from the top. I want to be clear: I disagreed then, and I disagree now. I’m telling you because we finally have a stable comm link and a confirmed path for recovery. A rescue is viable. The plan’s already in motion.”

Another pause. Creed’s voice dipped lower.

“You’ll get a full write-up in the morning—timelines, diagnostics, cause analysis. But for now, the important thing is this: she’s okay. She keeps saying none of the survivors are to blame. That it wasn’t anyone’s fault. She was critically injured. She was dragged off the launch path. She doesn’t want guilt. Just wants you to know she made it. Somehow.”

The silence on the ship grew dense, airless.

“You’re cleared of science ops for the next 24 hours,” Creed said. “Use the time. Ask questions if you need to. Summers out.”

The line went dead.

The only sound for a long moment was the low hum of the ship itself—ventilation cycling, a screen blinking somewhere, the dull tap of someone’s fingers nervously shifting on plastic.

Then Khoa spoke. His voice was thin. “She… she’s alive?”

Armin let out a long breath. Not a laugh, not quite. Something quieter. “Frenchie lives,” he murmured.

Across the room, Hoseok let out a sharp, stunned exhale. “Holy shit,” he said, half-laughing as he scrubbed both hands over his face. “Holy shit. Commander. Did you hear—?”

“She’s alive,” Jimin said. But it wasn’t joy in his voice. It was something else. Something low and furious.

He was still staring at the screen.

“They left her behind.”

His voice was barely a whisper.

Val turned toward him slowly. “Commander…”

“They left my sister behind,” he said, louder now, jaw clenched. He wasn’t looking at anyone. “She was injured. Alone. And they wrote her off.”

“Jimin,” Hoseok said gently, “you heard the report. Everyone thought she was dead. No one expected even two of us to make it out of that launch zone alive. You remember what it was like down there.”

“She’s been surviving in that hellhole for months. By herself .” His voice rose again, brittle and sharp. “While we’ve been running scans and juggling experiments and writing status reports. If we had known, we could’ve turned back. We could’ve—”

“No one would have approved a course change,” Hoseok cut in, regret in his voice. “We were already past max drift. And your wife—Jimin, she would’ve never agreed to let you stay out any longer with the baby coming—”

“For French Fry,” Jimin said, cutting him off. “She would’ve understood.”

The words landed like iron. The room went still again.

No one answered. There wasn’t a way to. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Val looked down at her hands, still poised above the console. She dropped them into her lap. Khoa sat quietly, his tablet untouched. Even Armin, ever the rational one, had nothing to say.

Jimin straightened slowly, his shoulders squared like armor tightening. Without another word, he turned and left the room. His footsteps echoed down the hall—deliberate, heavy against the low hum of artificial gravity.

No one followed.

There was nothing to say.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The heat was relentless.

Outside, under the glare of M6-117’s three suns, the red dust shimmered like liquid metal. Inside the Hab, it wasn’t much better. The air recyclers coughed along at half-capacity, the cooling system barely holding a line between unbearable and fatal. Everything smelled faintly of plastic and sweat—human persistence baked into the walls.

Y/N moved carefully, deliberately, her body too tired for wasted motion. A layer of sweat clung to the inside of her collar, sticky and constant. She crouched beside her potato rows, fingers brushing gently across a cluster of dark green leaves. The plants were thriving—miraculously, stubbornly. Small jungle bursts of color and life tucked between racks of salvage gear and oxygen scrubbers.

She lifted a reclaimed plastic jug from under the table, the water inside cool from the overnight cycle. It had been drawn from her own sweat, breath, condensation, and filtered half a dozen times through systems that had no right still working.

She poured it carefully at the base of each plant.

"You have no idea how much you're worth," she muttered to the leaves. “That’s a day of me smelling like gym socks so you can have a drink.”

She looked up toward the mounted camera, wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of dust behind. Her tone was light, but fatigue etched her voice like a dull blade.

“Now that NOSA can actually talk to me, they won’t shut up,” she said. “It’s like I won a sweepstakes I didn’t enter. Constant pings, questions, feedback... one guy sent me seventeen different configurations for optimizing light angles in here. I’m sure he means well.”

She adjusted the camera slightly, panning it over the rows of potatoes. They filled almost every horizontal surface now—shelving, crate tops, even a jury-rigged hanging tray suspended from the ceiling with bungee cords.

“I don’t mean to brag,” she said, “but I’m currently the most successful botanist on this planet. Also the only one. But that’s a technicality.”

She gave a small, dry smile and leaned on the edge of the workstation, looking down at her plants like they might talk back.

“They want me to pose for a picture for the next transmission,” she said after a moment. “Apparently, PR back home thinks a visual helps morale. You know—proof of life, survivor smiles, that kind of thing.”

She straightened and lifted an imaginary curtain with one hand. “So, here’s option one: high school senior portrait.” She struck a painfully awkward pose, elbow on the corner of the hydroponic shelf, head tilted at a strange angle. “Or option two: helpless ingénue stuck in a sci-fi melodrama.” She turned away from the camera, glancing over her shoulder with a dramatic pout and raised eyebrows. “Might not land well with a wrinkled jumpsuit and orbital grime under my eyes, but hey—commitment.”

She laughed, a short but real sound, and let the expression fall away.

“Still,” she said, grabbing a nearby notepad and scribbling a few numbers into her log. “This whole ‘talking to Earth again’ thing… it helps. I get regular data dumps now—emails from family, people from Starfire, old professors. Even some from strangers. Rock stars. One message was from the President of Nigeria. She said, ‘If you can grow food in hell, you can write your own flag.’”

She paused and smiled softly. “My favorite’s from Helion Prime Tech. My alma mater. They quoted this old saying: once you grow crops somewhere, you’ve officially colonized it.”

Y/N glanced toward the plants again, then the camera. Her voice took on a sharper edge—still dry, but aimed.

“So technically? This is a colony. My colony. And no offense to the dearly departed of Colony 212, but—” she lifted her chin, lips curled into a smirk—“in your fucking face . This rock is mine.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

It took her longer than she wanted to suit up.

The EVA gear was stiff with heat, the inner lining clammy with the kind of sweat that never really dried. She moved with slow precision, strapping each piece into place, checking seals twice—not out of fear, but out of habit. On M6-117, nothing forgiven mistakes.

The outer airlock hissed open, and the full weight of the suns hit her the moment she stepped outside. No breeze, no break, just three brutal discs crawling across a pale yellow sky, casting triple shadows that splayed outward from her feet like ghostly limbs.

She exhaled, already feeling the sweat bead along her hairline beneath the helmet. The ground crunched under her boots as she walked to the signpost she’d stuck into the soil the night before—a piece of scrap aluminum from a broken equipment crate, bent and planted like a flag.

The helmet cam was already recording, but she reached up with gloved fingers and adjusted its angle anyway, making sure the shot would frame the suns just behind her, the horizon wide and clear. She checked her posture, squared her shoulders.

Then she pulled the card from a side pocket. Standard Hab notepad stock. On it, written in thick, black marker with a slight smudge in the corner, was a single word:

“ Ayyyyyyy .”

She held it up next to her helmet with one hand. The other gave a big, exaggerated thumbs-up.

The camera clicked.

That single frame—cropped, corrected for color and saturation, encoded and transmitted through four satellites, then downlinked to NOSA’s secure server on Aguerra Prime—arrived twenty-three minutes later in the middle of a tense meeting.

It projected onto the conference table like a headline. Y/N Y/L/N, alive, dusty, and grinning under her helmet, standing against the scorched landscape of a planet no one thought she’d survived.

Her suit was patched in at least two places—tape visible at the elbow and right knee. The jumpsuit underneath was stained with hydraulic fluid and long weeks of recycled air. But her posture was straight. Her stance confident. Her body language said what no press release could.

She was alive.

She was winning.

Y/N stood in the dust for a moment longer after the picture was taken. She didn’t move. She didn’t lower the card right away. The silence out here was total—no atmosphere to carry sound, no birds or engines or voices. Just the faint static hum inside her helmet and her own breathing.

She stared out at the land beyond the camera’s frame—flat, blistering red-orange, littered with sharp rocks and faint, wind-scarred ridges.

Then she smiled, a little to herself.

She tucked the card back into her suit and turned toward the Hab, footsteps crunching across the cracked surface. Her shadow followed in triplicate.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Around the table at NOSA HQ, no one said anything at first.

Then Alice folded her arms tightly and let out a long breath. “I ask for a hopeful, inspirational survivor photo,” she said, “and I get the goddamn Fonz.”

There were a few muffled laughs, but the mood stayed taut, the kind of tension that never really left these briefings.

Mateo’s voice crackled over the audio line from JPL. “Be grateful she held still long enough to take one. You should’ve seen the first batch—she was trying to photobomb herself.”

Alice shot a glare toward the monitor that could’ve etched cracks in the screen. “I need something with less Happy Days and more… her face. This is going global, not going viral.”

“She’d need to take off her helmet for that,” Mateo said, dry. “Which, you know… would kind of ruin the survivor narrative.”

The room chuckled. Even the interns in the back cracked a smile. The tension thinned for a moment—long enough to feel it.

But Yoongi, seated at the head of the table, didn’t laugh. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the image.

“We’ll release the photo as part of the official rescue announcement,” he said, voice calm but clipped. “Tie it to the supply mission schedule. I want public rollout before the next Hohmann Transfer window.”

Mateo’s tone shifted instantly. “Understood. I’m flying out this afternoon to confirm timeline and media assets.”

“Good,” Yoongi said. Then, turning slightly, he added without looking up, “Alice will handle all media appearances.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mateo’s voice again, mock-hurt: “Et tu, Yoongi?”

That earned a few more laughs around the room.

Alice didn’t even blink. “You gave us the Fonz,” she said. “Now smile pretty for the cameras.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The suit was getting harder to pull on each time—stiff from dust, from wear, from the countless hours it had spent exposed to heat, strain, and her own sweat. Y/N wriggled her arms into the sleeves, then sealed the chest plate with a firm press until the internal display blinked to life.

O₂ levels: nominal

Suit integrity: 97%

Environmental risk: high

She muttered under her breath, “No shit,” and reached for the toolkit. It rattled slightly as she lifted it, the latches barely holding after last week’s impact when she’d dropped it down the south ravine.

She moved to the airlock out of habit more than thought. It was just another check, another routine repair on the never-ending list. Seal realignment. External circuit relay.

Same thing as yesterday. And the day before that.

The door closed behind her with a metallic shunk, the seals engaging one by one with a soft, pressurized click. The hum of depressurization followed—steady, familiar. She braced herself with one hand against the wall, the other gripping the handle of her case.

Then, something shifted.

A sound—not quite right. A low groan. Material under stress. Then another. Louder.

She frowned, turning toward the seam above her.

The canvas lining rippled like something alive.

And then the airlock detonated.

KRAAK-BOOM.

The sound was deafening. She didn’t even register the pain until she was airborne.

The force hit her like a truck. She felt her body lift, weightless for a terrifying second, then plummet. The sky twisted. Dust. Light. The ground.

She hit.

Hard.

Her body slammed into the crusted surface of M6-117, the impact ripping the breath from her lungs. Her limbs flailed uselessly as she skidded, tumbled, rolled. The world spun in a blur of color and dust and noise. Something cracked—her faceplate. She heard it before she saw it.

By the time she stopped moving, she was flat on her back, staring at the burning sky through a spiderweb of shattered glass.

Inside the helmet, the heads-up display flickered, then died.

For a few long seconds, she didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Then she coughed—a wet, shuddering sound. Blood smeared across her visor. Her head pounded with the deep, pulsing throb of a concussion. Her left shoulder felt wrong—off-kilter. Dislocated? Maybe worse.

But she was alive.

She tried to sit. Couldn’t.

Tried again. This time she made it to her elbows.

From where she lay, she could see what was left of the Hab. Or rather, what wasn’t.

The far wall had collapsed. Twisted metal framed the crater where the airlock used to be. Bits of insulation floated in the thin air like confetti. The antenna was gone. Smoke curled from the side panel like steam off a boiling pot.

And then she heard it—sharp, close. The hiss.

A sound every spacer knows in their bones.

A breach.

Her breath hitched. She looked down. The hiss wasn’t coming from the destroyed Hab. It was closer.

Her suit.

No.

Panic hit her like a second explosion. She twisted, dragging her limbs over herself, hands scrabbling at the seams of her arms, her side, her legs. Fingers trembling, blood-slicked. The hiss was steady now, mocking her, just beneath her ear.

Too quiet to locate. Too loud to ignore.

“No. No no no—” she muttered, her voice cracking.

She fumbled with the toolkit, nearly dropped it. Yanked out a thermal knife and held it in shaking fingers. Her breath was coming too fast. Not enough oxygen left to waste.

She paused. Tried to think.

Then it came to her.

Hair .

She pulled off one glove with her teeth, then reached up and yanked a fistful of her hair from the base of her scalp. It came loose in a painful clump.

She struck the knife’s igniter. The tiny blade sparked to life.

She held the hair to the flame.

It caught instantly, curling into gray smoke.

She held her breath and watched.

The smoke drifted sideways. Curled. Then it flowed with purpose—drawn toward a tear no wider than a pencil lead, just under her right arm.

“There you are,” she whispered.

She grabbed a strip of emergency patch tape—bless whoever had packed it—and slapped it across the breach. Pressed hard. Waited.

The hiss stopped.

She sat there for a moment, hands shaking, heart pounding in her ears, her body slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.

But she was still breathing.

She forced herself to sit up straighter. Blood from her nose trickled down the inside of her collar. Her shoulder screamed with every movement, but she ignored it. Pain was good. Pain meant her nerves still worked.

She reached back into the kit. More tape. A patch for the faceplate. It wouldn’t hold under pressure, but it would get her to the rover if she didn’t waste time.

Each move was deliberate. Measured. She didn’t speak. Not now.

She worked on instinct—training, repetition, desperation. By the time she’d stabilized the suit enough to move, her fingers were scraped raw inside the gloves and her muscles ached with the dull tremor of shock.

By the time she reached what was left of the Hab, the sky had already shifted shades—three suns high and pale, casting long, warped shadows behind her. Every step felt like dragging a deadweight behind her. The suit was torn in three places, patched with thermal tape and a prayer, and every motion sent a warning ping through her helmet’s display.

She ignored them.

Her knees buckled when she stepped over the threshold of the airlock—what used to be the airlock. Now it was just jagged framework, wires frayed and sparking faintly in the filtered sunlight, insulation stripped away like peeling skin.

Inside, the smell hit her first.

Scorched plastic. Char. Burned electronics. And under that—soil. Rich, damp earth, once full of life. Now cold and still.

Y/N stopped in the center of the room and stared.

Her greenhouse trays had flipped during the blast. Rows of hand-raised potato plants were overturned, their roots tangled and limp, snapped stems buried under frozen soil. The water lines had ruptured. Moisture beaded on the shattered remnants of the clear ceiling panels, already beginning to frost.

The small oasis she’d fought for—day after day, breath by recycled breath—had been wiped out in an instant.

She stood there, barely swaying, not even bothering to remove her helmet. Her breath fogged the inside of the visor. Her limbs screamed for rest. Her shoulder throbbed. Her lips were cracked, and her face stung from where the suit lining had rubbed raw.

But the worst pain was in her chest.

It didn’t explode. It didn’t scream. It just ached. A deep, hollowed-out ache. A silence where hope had been.

She lowered herself to one knee. Not gracefully—more like her legs gave out. She caught herself with a hand against the floor, grimacing at the sharp jab of pain in her side.

She stared at one of the ruined plants. Half buried in overturned soil, its leaves wilted and torn, roots still clinging to a chunk of earth like it didn’t understand it had already lost.

Her vision swam.

Tears welled up fast—too fast for her to blink them away. They slipped down her face silently, tracking along the curve of her cheeks, catching in the grime at her jawline.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head hard. “No, no, not now.”

She sniffed, wiped at her face clumsily with the back of her glove. Her hands were shaking, but she pressed them into the floor to ground herself. She didn’t have time for this. She couldn’t afford it.

She wouldn’t cry here.

Not in front of the ruins of her work. Not in the place she’d survived. Not after everything.

She took one breath. Then another. Jaw clenched. Shoulders trembling. But still upright.

Then she reached forward.

Her fingers curled gently around the base of a broken stalk, brushing away bits of soil and tangled tubing. The leaves crumbled as she lifted it, the root ball dangling uselessly beneath.

She turned it over once in her hand.

And then, quietly, she began to clean.

No words. No declarations. Just movement. One wrecked plant at a time. Setting aside what could be salvaged, scraping frost from trays, resetting any equipment that still responded to power.

Her hands were red and raw. Her shoulder screamed every time she lifted something more than a kilogram. She worked through it.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Inside the Speculor, the silence felt deeper than usual.

Not the quiet of rest, or even the soft mechanical hum of a well-running system. This was different—hollow, like something had been taken out of the air itself. Like the space around her had grown too big and too small at the same time.

Y/N sat in the pilot’s chair, hands resting on the keypad, the screen in front of her still dark. The comm relay had synced with Earth five minutes ago. The signal was stable. Everything was ready.

But she wasn’t.

Her fingers hovered, curled and motionless, like she’d forgotten how to type. Like the words, all of them, were caught somewhere between her brain and her hands. Her jaw ached from clenching.

How do you even start a message like this?

She’d practiced it in her head a dozen times. Tried to boil it down into numbers, mission code, survivable facts. But none of it fit.

She closed her eyes, just for a second. Then she exhaled slowly, leaned forward, and began to type.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Thousands of kilometers away, on Aguerra Prime, in a windowless NOSA conference room tucked beneath the main operations floor, the mood was brittle.

Papers rustled. Fans turned overhead, moving stale air that no one was breathing deeply.

Mateo stood at the front of the table, the latest transmission report clutched in one hand, his other braced against the polished steel edge. Across from him, Alice Sung sat straight-backed and silent, her arms folded. Yoongi leaned forward with his elbows on the table, staring at the projection with a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t left in weeks.

Mateo cleared his throat, not because he needed to, but because the silence was pressing in. “The crops are gone,” he said.

No inflection. Just the truth.

“A full pressure breach,” he continued, flipping to the next page though he didn’t need to look. “Vaporized most of the water in minutes. The remaining biomass was exposed to sub-zero atmosphere. Temperatures dropped hard. Anything microbial was flash-frozen and denatured.”

Alice didn’t blink. “How much did she lose?”

“All of it,” Mateo said. “Zero viable regrowth. She’s down to stored reserves.”

A beat passed.

Alice’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How long can she stretch that?”

Mateo’s voice softened, but only slightly. “She still has a full reserve of harvested potatoes in cold storage. Rough estimate: 200 sols. If she rations to the edge of starvation, maybe 230.”

Yoongi tapped the pad in front of him, pulling up the raw numbers. “And combined with current rations?”

“Best-case projection gets her to Sol 609,” Mateo said, meeting his eyes. “That’s a hard ceiling. After that… she runs out.”

Alice’s tone didn’t change. “And the current Sol is?”

“135.”

The math wasn’t hard. The implications were.

Yoongi leaned back slightly, rubbing at his temple. “By Sol 868, she’s dead,” he said flatly.

No one answered.

The weight of it wasn’t in the words—it was in everything left unsaid. The understanding that survival had a clock now. That every tick, every delay, had a cost.

Finally, Yoongi spoke again. “That means we move. No more waiting. What happens if we accelerate the launch window?”

Across the room, Creed Summers looked up from his notes. He’d been quiet until now, mostly watching. Listening. He tapped his pen against his notebook—softly, rhythmically, the sound oddly loud in the tension-heavy room.

“If we move the launch up,” Creed said, “we hit a more aggressive arc. Less efficiency. It’ll cost fuel, and we’ll need to retrofit the shell. But it cuts time.” He flipped a page. “Best estimate: 414-day trip. That’s with minimal margin for slingshot.”

Yoongi didn’t look away. “How fast can we mount and inspect the boosters?”

“Thirteen days,” Creed said.

Yoongi nodded slowly, doing the math aloud. “Sol 135. If we launch in thirteen, we’re at Sol 148. That gives…” He glanced at Mateo.

“Forty-seven days,” Mateo confirmed. “That’s all Marco and his team get.”

Alice raised an eyebrow. “How long does a long-range delivery probe usually take to build?”

“Six months,” Mateo said, deadpan.

Yoongi didn’t hesitate. “Then we’re doing it in forty-seven days.”

He pushed his chair back and stood, pressing his palms flat on the table. “I want the schedule on my desk in two hours. Engineering, fabrication, mission redundancy. I want a failure tree mapped before nightfall.”

He turned toward Mateo. “You’re going to call Marco and tell him.”

Mateo didn’t argue. He just gave a tired, resigned nod. “Sure. He loves a challenge.”

Yoongi paused in the doorway. “Tell him if he pulls it off, I’ll name the booster after him.”

Alice’s eyes flicked up. “And if he doesn’t?”

Yoongi didn’t look back. “Then I’ll name the crater after him instead.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

At the Jet Propulsion Laboratory on Aguerra Prime, the mission floor had fallen into a kind of unnatural stillness—the quiet you only get after a seismic shift. Moments earlier, the room had been its usual low-grade storm of movement: soft conversations, data pings, the tapping of keys, the muted buzz of a dozen different systems chattering across their networks.

Now, the air was still.

Screens still glowed. Diagnostics still ran. But no one was reading them. No one was speaking.

The speakerphone in the middle of the room hummed quietly, its last transmission long since finished, as if it hadn’t caught on that the call had ended. Or maybe it had. Maybe it was the only thing in the room that understood what had just landed.

Marco del Castillo sat back slowly in his chair, one hand braced against the edge of the desk. His face was drawn tight, his forehead damp. The sweat wasn't from heat—climate control kept the labs cool. It was the kind that came when the reality of something hit harder than expected. His jaw was clenched, not in anger, but in pressure, as if the weight of what he’d just heard was still settling in.

Across the room, his team watched him. Not waiting for a speech—just waiting for movement.

Marco’s eyes stayed on the speaker for another few seconds, like it might offer him some clarification. A loophole. A way out. But it didn’t. Just that low hum.

He swallowed. “Okay.”

Barely above a whisper.

He blinked. Licked his lips.

“Okay.”

It wasn’t agreement. It wasn’t reassurance. It was just... the first brick laid on a path he didn’t yet know how to walk.

No one else spoke. Even the coffee machine, notorious for burbling at the worst possible times, stayed quiet.

He looked down at his shirt. The collar was damp where it touched his neck. He tugged it loose, tried to swipe the sweat off his palms but only managed to smear it into the fabric of his pants.

“I’m gonna need a change of clothes,” he muttered.

Then, finally, he stood. Slow. Shoulders rolling to life after too long spent frozen. His knees cracked audibly as he straightened. He didn’t bother to hide it.

He looked around—really looked this time. His team wasn’t huge, but it was formidable. Engineers, data analysts, systems designers, materials people. A few interns, all wide-eyed and stock-still. None of them moved. But they were waiting.

He cleared his throat and nodded to himself, as if deciding to take the next step before his body caught up.

“We’re all gonna need a change of clothes,” he said, louder now. “Probably more than one.”

There was no laughter. No eye-rolling or smirks. But the silence changed shape.

Because it wasn’t a joke. It was the truth.

They’d just been handed a forty-seven-day timeline to do what normally took half a year. Design, build, and launch a custom long-range, solar-boosted supply probe—fully loaded, tested, and space-certified. Not for a demonstration. Not for a publication. For a person.

A woman—alone, somewhere on a planet that was trying to kill her by inches.

This was not the job they’d expected when they came in this morning.

It was quiet for a few more seconds.

Then a chair squeaked back. A keyboard tapped once. A screen changed. Someone moved. And then another.

Marco turned to the closest terminal, watching it come alive again. He drew a long breath, the weight in his chest still there, but finally shifting into something useful.

“Okay,” he said, not to himself this time. “We’re splitting into two teams. Twenty-four-hour rotations from here on out. Team One’s on design and integration, Team Two’s on fabrication and logistics. Habitat Systems is priority. I don’t care if it’s ugly—I care if it works. This isn’t about how it looks in a journal.”

He started walking, pointing as he spoke.

“Avionics, you’re with propulsion—make a list of what we’ve already got on-site. If it flies and isn’t nailed down, I want it catalogued. Flight software—start building a stripped-down nav shell. We don’t need elegance. We need function. Communications, link with SatCon and figure out how to thread a signal path between three satellites we don’t even control. Make it work.”

He looked at Materials next.

“If we’re short anything, I want a full manifest on my desk by midnight. Don’t wait for procurement. Raid our backups. Hell, raid the museum if you have to. This thing launches in forty-seven days, or she dies.”

A silence settled again—not the stillness from before, but something more focused. Sharper.

People began to move in earnest. Terminal screens flicked open. Hands reached for headsets. Murmurs returned to the room—not casual, but concentrated. No one needed to be told what this was. They could feel it in their chests.

This wasn’t a project. It was a lifeline.

Marco turned back toward his own workstation, dragging in a shaky breath, already making calculations in his head. Trajectories. Mass ratios. Heat loads. Battery yields under degraded conditions.

He was exhausted. Sweating. His shirt clung to his back. But he didn’t sit down.

There was too much to do.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The Starfire drifted through the velvet dark, a slow glide along its return arc to Augerra Prime. From a distance, it was just a speck—cold metal and old fire reflecting starlight, swallowed by the vast, endless black.

Inside, tucked away from the quiet hum of fusion drives and navigation updates, the rec room felt like another planet entirely. Low lighting, soft music looping somewhere in the background, and a faint hum of life-support systems pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat.

Bách Koah Nguyen slouched at one of the auxiliary terminals in the Starfire’s rec alcove, the ship's artificial night cycle dimming the overhead lights to a sleepy amber. The room was half-empty—just the quiet hum of the ventilation system and the occasional murmur from the corridor beyond.

A glass of electrolyte tea sweated next to his elbow, untouched. His legs were kicked out beneath the desk, one boot tapping softly against the metal base, steady and aimless.

He stared at the blinking cursor in the message field. Just him, a static-filled channel, and a blank screen demanding a letter to a woman stranded on a dead planet.

“Goddammit, Frenchie,” he muttered.

He cracked his knuckles and started typing.

Frenchie,

Apparently, NOSA’s decided we’re allowed to talk to you again. And lucky me—I drew the short straw. So… hi. I guess.

He scowled, reread the line, then deleted the last sentence.

Frenchie,

Apparently, NOSA’s letting us talk to you now. And lucky me—I get the honors. Just me and this stupid interface.

A small grin tugged at his mouth.

He kept going.

Sorry everyone left you behind. I’d say it was personal, but let’s be honest—you’re not that interesting.

He leaned back, reading it out loud under his breath with mock solemnity.

It’s roomier without you here, though. We’ve been splitting your workload—still no replacement. NOSA moves at the speed of moss. But hey, it’s only botany. Not real science, right?

He paused, hesitating for half a breath, then added:

How’s the planet? Healing okay? Quỳnh made me ask. She says hi. Swears she likes you more than me. Unclear if that was a joke.

He smirked, hit send, and spun the chair halfway around to stretch his legs. Quỳnh would kill him if she saw what he’d written. Or at least make a pointed comment over dinner and then beat him at cards in front of their kids.

The inside of Y/N’s speculor was a cramped oven by mid-sol, the temperature gauge flickering just below caution-red. The screen glowed pale blue in the darkened cabin, casting a cool light across her face, which was smudged with dust and exhaustion. Her hair had been cut short weeks ago—poorly, out of necessity—with thick sections buzzed unevenly to keep from snagging in her helmet.

When the ping came through, she sat up straighter, already half-smiling. Her eyes scanned the message. She barked a short laugh. It echoed oddly in the enclosed space.

“He’s such a dickhead,” she said, amused more than annoyed.

She cracked her knuckles and leaned in.

Koah,
M6 is lovely this time of year. No bioraptors since sunrise, which is honestly a personal best. The injury healing fine. Sand in everything, winds like a brick wall, zero humidity. You’d hate it.

Her fingers moved faster now.

Tell Quỳnh I love her for checking in and that she’s objectively correct—I am more likable than you. But she loves you the most, don’t be a baby. How are the kids? Tell my Báo Bun I said happy birthday. Please. I think I missed it. Days blur here.

She hesitated, then added quietly:

Time’s getting slippery. I talk to a vent. I named my EVA helmet. I narrate things to a camera like it’s a friend and not just a blinking red dot. It's getting weird. I miss people.

Her jaw tensed. She exhaled and kept going.

Also, I did blow up the Hab. Long story. Mostly oxygen. Partially my fault. On the bright side, all of Captain Marshall’s disco collection survived the fire. Divine punishment, I guess. Tell Zimmermann. He’d appreciate that.

She glanced at the fuel gauge on her aux battery and typed faster.

How’s the Starfire? Still smell like a rusted can and depression? I walked today—just me, long horizons, and high ceilings. You’d hate it. No chairs. No coffee. Tell the crew I said hi. And tell Jung he still owes me fifty credits from poker. I may be marooned, but I’m not letting that go.

She read it over, didn’t bother to edit, and hit send.

Y/N leaned back in the worn pilot’s chair, the padding long since flattened beneath her weight. Her shoulders sank into the frame, her neck rolling slowly against the edge of the headrest with a dull crack. The gesture wasn’t one of comfort—just survival. The closest she could get.

She closed her eyes.

Her whole body ached—not sharp pain, just the kind that lingered, like soreness that had taken up permanent residence in her joints. Her knees were stiff. Her lower back pulled with every breath. The skin on her hands felt raw under the gloves, the kind of tired that wasn’t from one bad night but from all of them.

Still, there was a quiet inside her chest now—a loosening of something she'd been carrying around for weeks without realizing. Just a little slack in the knot. No miracles. Just a few words on a screen from someone who remembered who she was.

Back on the Starfire, Koah barely shifted in his seat when the response pinged in. He opened it and scanned the message in silence, his mouth twitching as he read.

Helmet names. Talking to vents. The fire. The disco.

He let out a sharp breath of laughter when he hit the part about the Hab explosion, loud enough to make Val, seated at the next terminal, lift her head.

“What?”

“Y/N blew something up,” Koah said, grinning.

Val raised an eyebrow. “That is the least surprising thing I’ve heard today.”

He nodded, still smiling as he typed out a reply:

Copy that. Will relay to Jung. Still not paying.

He sent it. Then sat back, drink in hand, and stared at the terminal’s blank screen. He thought about saying something else. Asking something real. But the words didn’t come.

On M6-117, the glow from the message faded from Y/N’s screen as the terminal timed out.

She didn’t linger. There wasn’t time for it, not here.

The lightness that had crept in during the exchange was already being swallowed by the reality around her. The inside of the Hab still smelled faintly like burnt polymer and battery acid—residue from the fire that had nearly taken the whole station out. That smell had a way of clinging to everything. Her suit. Her tools. Her skin.

The inner wall was holding, more or less. The last repair—a patchwork quilt of insulation fabric, scavenged hull plating, and stubborn optimism—still looked solid. But the airlock was a different story. The blast had peeled open the lower quadrant like a can lid. The edges curled inward, jagged and blackened, the whole structure groaning with every change in temperature.

Y/N dragged a roll of synthetic canvas across the floor, one end slung over her shoulder, her feet crunching over scattered debris. She didn’t talk. She didn’t think. She just moved. Her breath was shallow, labored more from rationed air than from exertion. The silence around her felt thicker than usual—too still, too watchful.

She knelt at the base of the breach and began layering the canvas, her hands stiff inside the gloves. She worked fast but methodically, following the emergency repair schematic by memory: cross-seal pattern, spiral tension reinforcement. The duct tape unspooled with a series of harsh, ragged rips that echoed through the Hab like tiny gunshots.

Her hands trembled by the time she pressed the last strip flat.

She stepped back slowly, breath catching in her throat. The patch was ugly. Lopsided. But sealed.

“Not pretty,” she murmured, voice barely audible over her own heartbeat. “But let’s see what you’ve got.”

She crossed the room to the repressurization panel and keyed in the sequence. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the hiss began—low and deliberate as air filtered into the chamber, volume climbing slowly. The canvas at the airlock flexed. Bulged. Tensed.

Y/N didn’t breathe.

The panel beeped.

Pressure: Stable.

She slumped against the nearest wall, her legs folding beneath her as she slid to the floor, forehead pressed to the cool metal. Her heart was thundering in her chest, her lungs trying to decide whether they trusted the air again.

She let herself sit there for a minute. Maybe two.

Then she pushed up. Staggered a little, caught herself, and kept going.

There was always more to do.

Outside, the light had shifted. One sun was sinking low, casting long amber streaks across the sand. Another was just beginning to rise, painting the sky with a sickly kind of lavender haze. The third hung high overhead, thin and distant.

Inside the Hab, Y/N crouched beside one of her supply crates. She opened the lid slowly, as if hoping something new might be inside this time.

There wasn’t.

Potatoes. Shriveling, sprouting, some soft to the touch. She sorted through them one by one, inspecting for mold, for rot, for anything salvageable. She didn’t count them anymore. She knew what she had. Knew how long it would last. But the ritual mattered.

Each one passed through her hands like a silent marker of time.

She wasn’t counting calories. She was counting days.

A gust of wind rattled the outer shell. The canvas seal whispered as it flexed, tugged by the pressure difference.

Y/N’s head snapped up. She stared at the airlock.

Her chest tightened.

The fear was never gone. It just sank down for a while—waited. She clenched her jaw, turned back to the crate. Kept working.

Her fingers landed on the last potato.

She paused, thumb brushing its uneven skin.

Then, very softly, she lowered the lid and leaned forward until her forehead rested against it.

“Keep going,” she whispered to no one. “Just keep working.”

And she did.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Dean Marblemaw was half-hanging off his tiny faux-leather loveseat, one leg dangling off the side, the other curled awkwardly beneath him. His head was tilted at a painful angle that would all but guarantee a neck cramp by morning. He snored softly, the sound rhythmic and oddly reassuring, like an idling machine in sleep mode.

The only light in the room came from his computer monitor, which bathed the walls in a cold, blue glow. Orbital data crawled across the screen in endless loops—trajectory estimates, fuel deltas, burn timings, and window alignments. The cursor blinked patiently in a corner, waiting for someone to care.

A knock broke the stillness.

It was hesitant. Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t entirely sure they wanted to be there.

“Dean?” came a voice, low and tired.

Rory Bozzelli poked his head into the office, his face framed by the soft backlight of the corridor. His tie was loose. His eyes were glassy with the particular kind of fatigue you only got from too many consecutive 2 a.m. meetings and caffeine crashes.

Dean stirred with a grunt, brow furrowing as his eyelids fluttered open. He looked around like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was.

“Dean,” Rory said again, stepping inside. “Wake up. Sorry. They’re asking for the probe courses.”

Dean blinked slowly, then groaned and hauled himself upright with a kind of grim determination. He rubbed at his eyes with both hands, blinking away the fog.

“What time is it?” he rasped, voice thick with sleep.

“Three-forty-two,” Rory said, glancing at his watch like it was mocking him. “A.M., not that it matters anymore.”

Dean reached blindly for the mug on the small table beside the couch—his go-to cup, beige with the faded NOSA logo almost rubbed off. He took a generous swig without thinking.

He didn’t even swallow. The look of betrayal on his face was immediate. He leaned over and spat the cold, curdled sludge directly onto the carpet with no ceremony at all.

Rory grimaced. “Bold move.”

Dean wiped his mouth on his sleeve, waving the offense away like it was a minor inconvenience.

“I keep hoping one of these times it'll have magically turned back into coffee.”

“No such luck. Time travel’s not in the budget,” Rory said, then crossed the room to stand behind the desk. “Anyway, we need something they can lock onto. Doesn’t have to be pretty. Just has to be technically possible.”

Dean nodded, eyes still adjusting to the light, brain lagging a few seconds behind his hands as he fumbled through the disorganized pile of notes spread across his desk like fallen leaves. Pages were covered in sketches, scribbles, and equations scrawled in every direction.

“I know we’re working backwards,” Rory continued, dropping into the chair opposite him. “But no one's going to greenlight a hard launch date with this many unknowns. We need ballpark figures. Even soft projections would help.”

Dean finally found the page he was looking for and tapped it with a pencil, the graphite worn down to a nub.

“All twenty-five models converge at seven hundred thirty days to intercept,” he said, voice still hoarse. “There’s some variation in thrust profiles—different durations, minor fuel deviations—but it all averages out. Worst-case, we're talking maybe three percent delta-v difference. Not enough to change the math.”

Rory leaned over to get a better look at the figures. “Seven thirty’s... not ideal. It’s a long haul.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered. He was already flipping through a second notebook. “Aguerra and M6-117 are completely misaligned this cycle. Honestly, it’s borderline punitive.”

He stared down at the trajectory model on the screen for a long beat, blinking in slow motion as something clicked behind his eyes. His fingers stilled.

“Almost easier to what?” Rory asked.

Dean didn’t answer right away. His gaze had gone distant, eyes unfocused—not distracted, just deep in the zone where his mind did its best work. The gears were turning.

“Dean?” Rory said again.

Dean stood up abruptly, stretching his arms above his head with a groan, then wandered toward the door like he’d forgotten Rory was in the room.

“Coffee,” he muttered.

“Almost easier to what?” Rory pressed, trailing after him now. “You said it’s almost easier—what’s the rest of that thought?”

But Dean was already halfway down the hallway, muttering under his breath about eccentric orbits and slingshot vectors. One hand ran through his hair, the other gesturing vaguely at the air, like he could see the math floating there in front of him.

Rory stopped in the doorway and sighed, watching him go.

“You understand I’m technically your boss, right?” he called after him, no real heat behind it.

Dean didn’t answer. He rarely did when he was thinking like this.

Rory shook his head, lips curving into a tired, reluctant smile. He didn’t know where Dean’s thoughts were heading—but if past experience was anything to go by, it would either be a breakthrough or a fire hazard.

Either way, it was probably worth hearing.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Mateo stood in the center of NOSA’s mission control floor, one hand resting lightly on the edge of April’s console. The room buzzed softly with quiet activity—keyboards clacking, soft beeps from telemetry feeds, the occasional low voice trading numbers—but beneath it all, there was a tension that didn’t show on anyone’s face, but could be felt in the air. The kind that came when the margin for error had evaporated days ago.

He watched the satellite path update on the central display before beginning his dictation. April’s fingers were already poised above the keyboard, her eyes flicking between the screen and Mateo’s face.

“The probe will take four hundred fourteen days to reach you,” Mateo began, voice steady, deliberate. “It’ll carry enough food to get you through to the Helion Nexus rendezvous. We got lucky—one of the colony preloads was already scheduled to pass through that sector.”

April paused just long enough to glance up at him, a small curve forming at the corner of her mouth. “Tell her about the name,” she said quietly.

Mateo’s tone softened, just slightly. “We’re calling the probe Iris,” he said, watching the words appear on the screen as April typed. “After the Greek goddess who moved between worlds at the speed of wind. She’s also the goddess of rainbows. You’d like her.”

Inside the speculor, Y/N sat hunched over the terminal, legs drawn up to her chest. The message blinked onto the screen, and she read it in silence, the corner of her dry, cracked lips twitching into something just shy of a smile.

Mateo’s voice lived in her head now. Not in a dramatic way—just a familiarity, a rhythm. Even reading, she could hear his inflection. She stared at the words for a moment longer before typing back.

Gay probe coming to save me. Got it.

She hit send.

Back at NOSA, the message popped onto April’s screen. She read it, blinked, then laughed—actually laughed—and turned in her chair to read it aloud.

Mateo groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, Y/N.”

A few people nearby cracked up, grateful for the tension break. Someone at the back muttered, “Can we print that on the mission patch?”

April was still smiling as she cleared the message. For a moment, the pressure lifted. Just a moment.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Down the hall from the light of mission control, the NOSA briefing room was silent. No alerts. No monitors blinking with incoming messages. Just a single long table, half-drunk coffee cooling beside notepads, and a whiteboard filled with timelines that had already become obsolete.

This was the part of the building where optimism went to get audited.

Yoongi stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, tie undone, the weight of the moment visible in the way he gripped the back of a chair. His knuckles were pale, the veins on his forearms raised like cables. He didn’t need to raise his voice—he never did—but the silence that surrounded him wasn’t respect so much as inevitability. Everyone here knew what was at stake.

He stared at the latest report in his hands for a long beat, then tilted it toward the overhead light.

“The two hundred million dollar question,” he said dryly.

Then he squinted, leaned closer.

“Correction—five hundred.”

No one laughed.

Yoongi didn’t expect them to. His eyes moved from person to person, reading the faces in the room like mission telemetry. No one looked surprised. Everyone looked exhausted.

He cleared his throat. “So. Let’s get to it. Is this probe going to be ready in time?”

Across the table, Marco Moneaux looked like he was held together by sheer caffeine and irritation. His shirt was rumpled. His glasses were crooked. He hadn’t touched the cup of coffee in front of him. His fingers drummed once on the tabletop, then stopped.

“We’re not there,” Marco said, no sugarcoating. Just fact. “We’re behind.”

“How far behind?” Yoongi asked. No frustration. Just calculation.

Marco leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his face like he was trying to wipe off the last forty-eight hours. “Fifteen days. Minimum. If I had fifteen more, we could finish integration, validate all systems, run two full test loops, and sign off without crossing our fingers.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. He turned slightly toward Mateo, who stood against the far wall with his arms folded, watching quietly.

“Mounting takes thirteen,” Yoongi said. “Can we buy time there?”

Mateo unfolded his arms. “Technically, the hardware mount takes three. We added ten days for failure scenarios, interlock sequences, and redundancy checks. I could compress that. Maybe down to two.”

“That gives us one day,” Yoongi said. “We still need fourteen more.”

The room quieted again.

Yoongi turned back to the table. “What about testing and inspections?”

No one spoke.

Because they all knew what he was asking.

Creed, seated near the end, finally leaned back in his chair. “You’re not seriously considering skipping the final inspections.”

Yoongi’s voice stayed even. “I’m asking how often they catch something that would actually stop the launch.”

Still, no answer.

Mateo exhaled slowly through his nose, then said, “One in twenty. That’s about the failure flag rate on final inspection. Most are minor. Some aren’t.”

Yoongi locked eyes with him. “So there’s a 95% chance nothing critical shows up.”

Mateo didn’t nod. “There’s a 5% chance we kill her before the probe even reaches orbit.”

The room went still.

Someone shifted in their chair. Paper rustled faintly. The HVAC kicked on overhead with a low, steady hum, like the building itself was holding its breath.

Yoongi didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked down at the report again, not because he needed to, but because it gave him something to do with his hands.

Then he looked over at April, who had been standing quietly near the doorway, her tablet pressed against her chest like a shield.

“Tell Dr. Keller to cut Y/N’s food rations by four more days.”

April frowned. “She’s already running tight.”

“She won’t like it,” Yoongi agreed. “Tell her anyway.”

April hesitated, then nodded and made a note.

Yoongi looked back to Marco. “No final inspection. You’ve got your fifteen days.”

Marco blinked at him, caught between disbelief and relief. “You’re serious?”

Yoongi nodded once. “Dead serious. Get it done.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Marco sat forward, a little straighter than before. The fatigue didn’t leave his face, but something steadier moved in behind his eyes.

“We’ll make it happen,” he said.

Mateo shifted, uneasy. His jaw clenched. He wanted to argue. You could see it building in the way his fingers tapped once against the table’s edge.

“Yoongi…” he started.

Yoongi didn’t look at him.

“If this fails, if it doesn’t make orbit—”

“It’s on me,” Yoongi said, quiet but final. “The risk. The consequences. The headlines. All of it. Put my name on it.”

And then he stepped away from the table, his hand brushing the doorframe as he paused to add, “The only number I care about now is launch day. Make it count.”

Then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

For a few seconds, no one moved. The weight of the choice he’d just made settled over the room like dust. Unspoken. Heavy. Real.

Then Marco stood.

Mateo followed.

One by one, the room came back to life—not with noise or panic, but with quiet resolve. No more questions. No more hesitation.

They didn’t have time for it.

They had fifteen days.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Y/N sat at the narrow foldout table in the Hab, elbows braced against the edges, hands limp in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on the items in front of her: one vacuum-sealed ration pack, two undersized potatoes, and silence.

The red light on the camera glowed steadily in the corner—unblinking, unjudging, and always watching. It had become a kind of ghost in her periphery. A reminder that someone, somewhere, might eventually see this. Or maybe not. At this point, the possibility barely registered.

She exhaled through her nose. Not quite a sigh. Just the breath left over after a thought you didn’t finish saying out loud.

“So,” she began, not looking at the camera yet. Her voice was low, dry. “Update. I’ve been advised to stretch rations another four days. That’s on top of the cuts I already made.”

She reached for the ration pack and held it up between two fingers like it offended her. The plastic crinkled faintly as she gave it a shake.

“This,” she said, “is what a ‘minimal calorie survival pack’ looks like when central command gets nervous.”

Her thumb slid along the seam and peeled it open with a practiced, joyless motion. A faint whiff of synthetic gravy filled the air.

She stared into the pouch for a second, then snorted.

“Oh good,” she muttered. “Meatloaf.”

She said it like the word had betrayed her.

Using a small, dented spoon, she carefully portioned the contents into thirds. One third onto a stained square of thermal wrap she used as a plate. The rest, she scraped into an airtight container she slid toward the back of the table. Tomorrow. And the day after. If she was lucky.

What was left in front of her was barely enough to coat the center of her palm. She studied it for a long moment, then reached for one of the potatoes.

It was warm from the growing bed, spotted with dirt. She sliced it in half, then quarters, trimming each piece down to something she could pretend was deliberate. Not desperation. Just… meal prep.

“This,” she said, her voice now aimed squarely at the camera, “is today’s menu. Potato number... I don’t know. Two hundred something. Maybe more. I stopped counting.”

She held up the grim little pile of food, eyebrows raised.

“Bon appétit.”

She set the knife down with more force than necessary and leaned back in her chair. It creaked slightly beneath her. Her shoulders rolled forward, heavy with the fatigue that came from more than just hunger.

“I used to like potatoes,” she said after a moment. “Grew up eating them. Roasted. Mashed. Fried. Once had this loaded baked thing at a truck stop in Oregon that could’ve solved world peace. But now?”

She looked down at the slices on the table.

“I hate them. With the fire of a thousand nuclear suns.”

She picked up the knife again, chopped off a section of the meatloaf and an edge of the potato, and pushed them into the reserve pile—her little future. The container already looked too small.

“The point is,” she said, eyes still on the food but no longer seeing it, “stretching rations four extra days is a real dick-punch.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, not with emotion but something worse: hollow laughter that didn’t quite make it out of her chest.

Beside the plate, two pills waited. Pale blue. Pain management, according to the label she no longer bothered reading.

She picked them up, held them for a second between thumb and forefinger, then dropped them onto the table. With practiced efficiency, she flattened them with the blade of her knife, the powder scattering like dust. She used the flat of her palm to sweep it onto a potato slice and tapped the edges down so it wouldn’t fall off.

“I’m dipping my potato in Vicodin,” she said quietly. “And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

She wasn’t smiling when she said it. There was no triumph in the words. No rebellion. Just fatigue, scraped raw at the edges and smeared with the thinnest veneer of humor.

She popped the medicated piece into her mouth and chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the far wall. The silence returned, stretching between the seconds like taffy.

She didn’t bother saying anything else.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

At Cape Canaveral, the Iris probe stood tall against the pale morning sky, its sleek silver frame already glistening with condensation. Vapor hissed and curled around the base of the launchpad, coiling through the support scaffolding like breath in cold air. Engineers moved around it with surgical focus, checking clamps, seals, telemetry channels—everything twice, some things three times.

There was no room for error. Not this time.

Inside NOSA’s mission control, every seat was filled. The room had that charged stillness of a place on the verge of something irreversible. The kind of quiet that wasn’t really quiet—just full of people holding their breath in unison.

Creed stood in the center of it all, headset on, eyes flicking between monitors. His voice was calm but clipped, the way it always got when the adrenaline started to hit.

He glanced toward the back of the room where Mateo leaned against the wall, arms folded. His posture was relaxed, but the tightness around his mouth said otherwise.

“Do you believe in God, Mateo?” Creed asked, adjusting his mic without taking his eyes off the main feed.

Mateo didn’t hesitate. “Several. My mother’s Catholic. My father’s Hindu.”

Creed gave a single nod, as if that somehow covered the bases. “Good. We’ll take all the help we can get.”

He turned back to his console, voice sharpening. “Flight Director to all stations—begin Launch Status Check.”

A quiet chorus of acknowledgments echoed through the room, each one crisp, practiced, stripped of emotion.

“Prop.”

“Go.”

“Avionics.”

“Go.”

“Guidance.”

“Go.”

“Ground.”

“Go flight.”

Outside, Iris waited.

The countdown clock began to tick—T-minus two minutes—and the room settled into a silence so focused it hummed in the air. At JPL, Marco Moneaux stood with his team in a darkened room, eyes locked on their displays. Alice was pacing in her glass-walled office back in Oslo, arms crossed, phone forgotten in one hand.

Mateo stayed by the wall, unmoving, watching the second hand sweep past each hash mark like a blade.

T-minus zero.

The clamps released.

The booster roared to life, a deep, visceral thunder that shook the ground from thousands of miles away. Onscreen, the rocket surged upward in a column of white fire. The room erupted—claps, cheers, people standing out of their seats, a dozen fists in the air. After everything—the engineering, the recalculations, the fifteen borrowed days—it was happening.

A launch. A real one. And it looked good. For a second.

“Getting a little shimmy, Flight,” came a voice over comms. Calm, but edged with concern.

Creed straightened. “Say again.”

“Guidance reports rotational anomaly—long-axis spin. Seventeen degrees and climbing.”

The cheers stopped mid-breath. On the main screen, the probe jerked slightly, then again—too sharply. Too fast. Red warning lights blinked to life across the room.

“Payload rotation increasing,” another voice called. “We’re seeing lateral instability—probable dismount in the housing ring.”

“Shit,” Creed said under his breath.

On the video feed, Iris vibrated hard, the booster shaking beneath it like it was trying to buck the probe free. Telemetry feeds went scrambled. Numbers flickered. Then: static.

And then—nothing.

The main screen blinked. Froze.

Black.

A single word appeared in the corner in block white font:

L.O.S. — Loss of Signal.

No one spoke.

Creed stood completely still, jaw locked, his hand resting lightly on the edge of his console. A vein ticked in his temple. The whole room seemed to hold itself in suspension, waiting for something else. Anything.

But there was no update. No recovery.

The probe was gone.

He reached for the mic. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Controlled.

“GC, Flight. Lock the doors.”

The command was standard. No one left. No one talked to press. No one speculated outside this room until they understood what had happened.

But the weight behind the words was anything but procedural.

Across the room, Mateo had closed his eyes. His fingers dug into his arms where they crossed.

JPL went silent. Alice stared at her screen like she was seeing ghosts.

And far away, on a dead planet circling a cold red sun, someone who had bet everything on that launch was still waiting.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Mateo sat alone in his office, still in his shirt and tie from earlier, though the knot was loose now and the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. The building was quiet—too quiet. The buzz that usually pulsed through NOSA’s command wing had faded hours ago, leaving behind the hum of distant servers and the occasional click of an HVAC vent adjusting to no one’s preferences.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there. His elbows rested on his thighs, hands hanging loose between his knees, head bowed like he was trying to remember how to breathe through a concrete chest. The overhead lights had timed out a while ago. Motion sensors gave up when you stopped moving.

The darkness didn’t startle him. It didn’t even register at first.

It was the cold that finally reached him—the slight drop in temperature that crept in around the silence, crawling under his collar, along his spine. It made him shift, just slightly. Enough for the system to recognize life again.

The lights snapped back on. Cold, sterile fluorescence bathed the room, harsh against the stale air and the untouched coffee on his desk.

He squinted as his computer chimed.

A soft, familiar notification tone.

He turned his head slowly, expecting a routine update. More debris analysis. Another round of impact telemetry. Instead, he saw the sender field.

Relay Message Received—Prometheus (M6-117)

There was a pause in his brain. A kind of quiet click, like a dropped pin landing on tile. His heart didn’t race. It just… stopped for a beat. Then started again.

He opened the message.

One line.

How’d the launch go?

Mateo stared at the screen.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, one hand hovering near the keyboard but not touching it. The cursor blinked beneath her words, quiet and steady, as if it wasn’t sitting inside a vacuum of awful truth.

He leaned back slowly in his chair. Closed his eyes for a second.

Then opened them again, because she was waiting. And she didn’t know.

He rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling through his fingers. His eyes burned, not with tears but with exhaustion he didn’t have room for anymore.

He turned back to the keyboard. His hands hovered over the keys.

Then stopped.

Because how the hell do you explain this? How do you tell someone who’s a planet away that the thing meant to save her just fell out of the sky?

He sat there, surrounded by light he didn’t want, silence he couldn’t stand, and a message from someone who still believed there was hope.

And for the first time all day, he didn’t know what to say.

Chapter 8: Fuck Bureaucracy

The reds of M6-117 bled across the sky like a bruise stretching over the horizon. It was technically morning—though nothing about this place felt like morning. There were no birds, no blue sky, no dew on the ground. Just heat rising in slow, merciless waves under the low twin suns. No relief, only exposure.

Y/N stood outside the Hab, boots sunk halfway into the grit. The wind had died down for now, but the silence was heavier than any storm. Her suit was streaked with dirt, pockmarked with patches—each one a story she hadn’t had the time or energy to write down. The visor on her helmet caught the early light at an angle, throwing a warped reflection of the landscape behind her. She didn’t look back at it.

She tilted her head slightly, as if trying to decide whether she was ready to say it out loud. Then she pressed the comm.

“Jim.”

Her voice came through the static-soft channel, low and almost hesitant, like she was still practicing the sentence inside her own skull. The word hung there a moment, delicate and unfinished.

“I need you to do something for me.”

She paused, pressing a gloved hand against the seam of her thigh like grounding herself might make it easier.

“If I don’t make it—and I’m not saying I won’t, just… if—I need you to talk to them. Please.”

She looked down, eyes tracking the trail of her own footprints half-blown smooth by last night’s wind.

“They shouldn’t hear about me from a news brief. Or a stranger reading a script. That’s not how this ends.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t stop. If anything, it made her steadier. There was no emotion she hadn’t already felt out here—fear, grief, anger, numbness—and now they all just circled each other like orbiting moons.

“Helion Prime was the beginning of everything. I was seventeen. Terrified. Stupid in the ways you’re only allowed to be when you’re too new to know better. And they were so proud. I used to think they were just being polite, but they meant it. Every article—they printed them all. Even the blurry ones where I was just in the background fixing a panel.”

She exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the nearby speculor—its chassis sand-swept and sunburnt. Her reflection blinked back at her in distorted glass.

“Flight school at twenty. I met you there. I remember the day I brought you home,” She smiled faintly, remembering. “They adored you. God, I think Aunt Rose made you cookies the second day she met you. They never had to pretend with you. You were family before we ever said the word out loud.”

A beat.

“They didn’t even hesitate to move across the galaxy to be near us. Packed up their entire lives and settled on a rainy colony world, even though Aunt Rose hates humidity and mold and missing her morning paper. You remember how mad she was when she realized Aguerra didn’t even have paper delivery?”

Her voice grew quieter then, the smile fading as her posture straightened slightly.

“If something happens, I need you to go to them. Sit down. Look them in the eye. Don’t tell them about this place. Don’t describe the suits and the patch kits and the way the sun burns through the walls at midday. They don’t need to know that. Talk about Starfire . Tell them how much I loved that ship. How much I loved what we did. That was the happiest I’ve ever been, Jim. Not just in space. Anywhere.”

She shifted her weight slightly, boots crunching against dry ground.

“It’s not going to be easy,” she said. “There’s no good way to tell people their niece died millions of miles from home. But if it has to happen, they need to hear it from someone who knew me beyond the title. Who saw me here, with the work and the grime and the joy of it all.”

Her voice caught on the next breath. She didn’t try to hide it—there was no one out here to impress. Just the comm channel, the open stretch of dead horizon, and a sky that never blinked.

She steadied herself.

“And tell Uma…” Her voice cracked, unraveling mid-sentence. She blinked hard, trying to keep her eyes clear, but it was already too late. They were glassy now, fogging over with grief she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until this exact second.

“Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry.”

The words came out rough. Honest. And too small for everything they meant.

“I wanted to be there,” she continued, slower now, like each syllable cost her something. “I wanted to help pick paint colors, argue over names no one would use. Hold her hand when she panicked over something tiny and hormonal and beautiful.”

She let out a shaky laugh—just one—but it didn’t stay.

“I wanted to sit in the nursery with her. Feel the baby kick. Help build furniture we’d curse at and pretend we knew how to fix. Babysit. Fall asleep on the couch watching movies we’d already seen. Spoil the kid. Sneak them candy behind your backs.”

She looked up, eyes squinting against the sharp white glare of the twin suns climbing higher above the dunes. Her voice dropped to a whisper, quieter than the wind curling at her feet.

“If I made it home… that baby would already be walking.”

She didn’t need to explain it. The heartbreak sat there on its own, fully formed.

Silence followed, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything she couldn’t bring herself to name. All the stolen time. All the pieces of a life she was still trying to carry, even as the weight of this planet pulled harder at her every day.

When she spoke again, it was softer. But there was no wobble left.

“I’m not giving up. Don’t think for a second that I am.”

Her eyes locked on the far line of the horizon. The sky shimmered, heat warping the edge of everything.

“I’ve made it through things that should’ve killed me,” she said. “But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that hoping for the best only works when you’re also planning for the worst. I’m not making a goodbye message. I’m covering my bases. That’s all.”

She reached up, adjusted the mic on her collar, and took a steadying breath.

“If it comes to that—if I don’t make it back—tell them I didn’t die out here just trying to hang on. Tell them I chose this. That I wanted to be out here. That I believed in what we were building. That I gave it everything I had.”

She paused, her fingers brushing the spot near her hip where the suit had been patched again and again. The fabric there felt thinner, no matter how many times she reinforced it.

“Not because I was brave. Not because I was reckless. But because I believed in it. All of it. And because I was exactly where I was supposed to be.”

Her voice dipped to almost nothing.

“Tell them I’m okay with that.”

A pause.

“Even if they’re not.”

The wind picked up again, pulling at the hem of the thermal shielding she’d bolted down earlier that morning. It flapped once, soft and tired, like the Hab itself was exhaling beside her.

Y/N stood there a little while longer, watching the light stretch across the red landscape. The suns climbed, and the shadows pulled behind her like anchors.

She didn’t speak again.

Eventually, she turned. The gravel shifted beneath her boots, crunching softly with each step. The Hab loomed ahead, patched and battered and still standing—like her.

She walked back toward the airlock.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The Taurus Interplanetary Commission headquarters stood like a blade of glass and steel against the deep blue atmosphere of Taurus I. It was the kind of place built to make a statement—an architectural flex that said humanity didn’t just belong in space; it was starting to understand how to make it beautiful.

Inside, the halls buzzed with quiet, measured urgency. Footsteps on polished floors. Low voices in corners. The occasional murmur of comms traffic spilling from open doors. On a wide display screen in the atrium, NOSA’s press conference played in real time. Yoongi and Mateo sat at the table, looking like they hadn’t slept in days. Probably because they hadn’t.

“We substituted the standard ration bricks with high-density protein cubes,” Mateo was explaining, his voice steady but dry with exhaustion. “What we didn’t account for was the behavior of those cubes under heavy thrust. Combined with lateral vibration during ascent, the protein packs liquefied and shifted the weight distribution. That’s what destabilized the payload.”

The reporters pounced.

“Why wasn’t this caught during final inspection?”

Yoongi leaned forward, face unreadable. “We didn’t have time.”

The room stirred with low, anxious chatter.

“You skipped the inspections?” one reporter asked, voice sharp.

“Yes,” Yoongi said. Flat. Unapologetic. “We had a fourteen-minute window. If we’d missed it, we wouldn’t have another chance for months. And she doesn’t have that kind of time.”

The broadcast continued, but in a quiet corner office ten floors above, the volume had already been muted.

André Batista stood near the window, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored jacket. His gaze drifted from the screen to the man seated behind the desk.

“She’s not going to make it,” André said finally, his voice low but certain. Not cruel. Just honest.

Gunther Apinya didn’t look up right away. He was scanning a data packet, fingers idly flipping through the pages until André stepped forward and placed a second folder in front of him.

“Maybe not,” André allowed. “But maybe she does. Take a look.”

Gunther opened it.

Charts. Numbers. A schematic of the Argo booster system, overlaid with a proposed injection path—M-344/G orbit. Deep burn. Minimal gravity assist. Fast and dirty.

“You ran this through engineering?” Gunther asked, already knowing the answer.

“They ran it twice. If we launch in forty-eight hours, it’ll reach her in time.” André crossed his arms. “With margin.”

Gunther frowned. “Why hasn’t NOSA reached out to us?”

“They don’t know we can help,” André said simply. “That booster tech is still classified under Coalition R&D. There are maybe twelve people outside this building who even know it exists.”

Gunther leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “So what you’re saying is... if we do nothing, no one would ever know we had the capability.”

André nodded once. “That’s right.”

They sat in silence, the air between them thick with implication. Out the window, the twin suns of Taurus I were setting low, turning the glass gold.

Gunther finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “And if we help?”

“We burn a booster we can’t replace. Argo gets delayed. Possibly scrapped.”

Silence again. This time, longer.

Gunther stared at the file. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

Then he closed the folder slowly, the soft click of the binder echoing in the quiet office.

“This doesn’t go through governments,” he said. “No public release. No diplomatic channels.”

André raised an eyebrow. “You want backchannel?”

“I want scientists,” Gunther replied. “Just us. Just them. No politics. No medals. If this works, the world never needs to know.”

André didn’t smile, but something in his shoulders eased. “I’ll make the call.”

As he stepped out of the room, Gunther turned back to the muted broadcast. Mateo was still speaking, trying to explain the loss without flinching. Yoongi sat beside him, unmoving, his eyes shadowed but clear.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The lights in Yoongi’s office were dim, the windows tinted against the rising glare of Aguerra’s twin suns. A half-empty mug of cold coffee sat forgotten on the edge of his desk, the ring it left behind now drying into the paper below. Across from him, the comms unit glowed faintly, casting a soft blue hue over the scattered reports and schematics that hadn’t been touched in hours.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

The voice on the other end was calm, precise—measured in that way only career scientists and seasoned negotiators knew how to be. It laid out the terms cleanly: launch access, limited telemetry sharing, classified propulsion specs kept under lock. No governments. No press. Just a backdoor lifeline.

Yoongi sat motionless in his chair, head tilted back against the cushion, eyes closed. Not from sleep—he hadn’t slept in over thirty hours—but to block everything else out. The ache in his shoulders. The sting behind his eyes. The pressure that had been building in his chest since the probe failed.

But now, there it was.

Help.

Unexpected. Improbable. Quietly offered from a corner of the galaxy where he hadn’t dared hope.

He almost didn’t trust it at first. Then the voice repeated the final clause, politely, waiting for acknowledgment.

Yoongi blinked. Straightened.

He didn’t reach for a pen. Didn’t take a breath to buy himself time. He already knew the answer.

His voice, when it came, was low—rough from disuse—but steady.

“Yes,” he said. “We accept.”

And as he leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk, the hum of the line settled into silence. A silence that, for the first time in days, didn’t feel like failure pressing in from all sides. It felt like motion. Like the beginning of something.

He let the weight of it settle.

Then he picked up the stylus and got back to work.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

At Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s primary assembly bay, the air was thick with fatigue, sweat, and the faint chemical tang of solder and composite dust. Half-finished components were stacked on worktables. Coffee cups littered the corners of schematics. No one had slept enough. No one was planning to, either.

Marco stood at the whiteboard, sleeves rolled to the elbows, marker already in hand. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts like he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and the stubble on his jaw was well into Day Three territory. Behind him, the whir of ventilation fans and toolkits hummed over the low murmur of keyboards and data feeds.

“Okay,” he said, voice sharper than usual—not angry, just wired. Focused. Running on pure adrenaline. “Thanks to some unexpected friends back on Earth, we’ve got one more shot at this.”

He turned and started writing fast, the marker squeaking against the board as he sketched out the basic launch trajectory and burn profile. The numbers came from muscle memory now.

“We built Iris in sixty-three days,” he went on, turning back to face the room. “And for the record? That should’ve been impossible. But we did it. You did it. Every subsystem, every weld, every last calibration. You made it happen.”

He held up the marker like a baton. “Now we do it again.”

The engineers and analysts around him exchanged tired looks. There were bags under everyone’s eyes, a few still wearing the same clothes from the day before. But no one objected. No one moved to say no.

Marco raised an eyebrow, as if daring someone to tell him it couldn’t be done.

“We don’t get sixty-three days this time,” he said. “We get twenty-eight. Twenty-eight days to design, fabricate, test, and launch a completely reconfigured payload. Lighter. Faster. Hotter burn. Different booster.”

He tapped the board with the marker, underlining a series of projected dates.

“And we’re going to do it. Because the alternative is watching someone die knowing we could’ve helped. I’m not interested in being a footnote in that story.”

The room had gone quiet—no arguments, no complaints. Just the subtle shift of people straightening in their seats, tightening ponytails, finishing cold coffee. The kind of stillness that came just before a storm.

Marco exhaled, stepped back, and dropped the marker into the tray.

“We don’t get to fail this time,” he said, softer now. “We get to try. That’s the gift. So let’s move.”

Someone from the propulsion team stood up and headed toward the assembly corridor. A software lead muttered something about patching a new thermal profile and started typing. A tech from avionics walked out without a word, already pulling up wiring schematics on a tablet.

Marco watched them go, then turned back to the board.

The numbers weren’t beautiful. But they were possible.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The hum of NOSA’s supercomputer lab was the kind of ambient noise that most people didn’t notice anymore. But Dean Marblemaw had always liked it—the low whirr of a machine thinking faster than he ever could, the air conditioners clicking rhythmically to keep it from melting down under its own brilliance.

He sat alone at the far terminal, sleeves pushed up, fingers moving fast over the keys. The numbers flowed like music—data sets, burn windows, orbital maps all converging into something strange. And then, suddenly, something true.

He stopped. Blinked.

Ran it again.

Same result.

Dean leaned back slowly, a grin spreading across his face like he couldn’t stop it if he tried. The kind of grin that had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with the pure, breathless thrill of seeing the impossible become real.

"Holy shit," he whispered, half-laughing.

He snatched the pages from the printer—charts, calculations, a half-scribbled orbital solution that shouldn't work but absolutely did—and bolted for the door.

The halls of NOSA blurred past him. He wasn’t built for running—skinny and long-legged in a way that always looked vaguely winded—but he didn’t stop. Security glanced up as he passed. A junior engineer did a double take. He didn’t care.

By the time he reached Mateo’s office, his heart was pounding and his shirt clung to his back. He didn’t knock.

He flung the door open hard enough that it bounced off the stopper, startling Mateo, who was in the middle of a call, headset pressed to one ear, tablet in the other hand.

Dean didn’t waste time.

“You should hang up the phone.”

Mateo blinked at him, thrown completely off balance. “I’m sorry, who the hell are you?”

“Dean Marblemaw. Astrodynamics. Floor six.” He stepped forward, still out of breath. “And seriously—you need to hang up the phone right now.”

Mateo held up a finger, eyes narrowing. “I’ll call you back,” he said into the headset, voice sharp with suspicion. He ended the call and set the tablet aside. “This better be worth it.”

Dean didn’t respond. He dropped a folder onto the desk and shoved it across the surface, sending a half-full coffee mug wobbling to the edge.

“Read this.”

Mateo didn’t move. Not at first. He studied Dean’s face—sweaty, flushed, buzzing with something like adrenaline—and then picked up the packet.

As he read, the frown that had settled into Mateo’s forehead deepened. Then stilled. His eyes jumped back up to Dean’s.

“This trajectory’s not viable.”

“It wasn’t,” Dean said, chest still heaving. “Until I ran the residual vectors on the second flyby sequence and—look, I can’t explain it fast. But it works. The window’s narrow, but it’s there. We can reach her.”

Mateo glanced back at the numbers, flipping to the second page. He did the math in his head. Then again.

His chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“You're absolutely sure?”

“As sure as I’ve ever been of anything that wasn’t caffeine dependency or gravitational constants.” Dean grinned, breath finally evening out. “Dr.Gomez, we can get a new payload there faster than we thought. If we burn on this vector, we shave thirty-one days off the injection arc. Thirty-one. That’s the difference between watching her die and watching her walk away.”

Mateo didn’t waste time. He was already punching the intercom.

“April,” he said, calm but urgent. “I need mission planning in my office. Now. Tell them it’s about Project Elrond.”

Across the room, Dean dropped into a chair, still riding the high of the math he’d just scrawled across four pages and a whiteboard. He grinned, breathless.

“I told you to hang up the phone,” he said.

Mateo didn’t respond. He was staring at the file in front of him, not reading it, just letting the numbers sink in like they were burning through the paper and into his chest.

They had something they hadn’t had in days.

Hope.

Alice stepped into the conference room mid-scroll, still reading from her phone. “Okay, seriously—what the hell is ‘Project Elrond’?”

Mateo didn’t look up from his tablet. “Had to give it a name.”

She stopped just inside the door. “Elrond?”

From the far corner, Creed looked up, brow arched. “ Council of Elrond. Lord of the Rings. ”

Alice blinked. “Why do Earth people always name critical operations after fantasy books? Is it a cultural compulsion? Or just a lack of imagination?”

Marco, legs stretched out, gave a quiet laugh. “It’s the meeting where they decide to destroy the One Ring. World-saving stuff.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” she muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Am I even supposed to know what that means? How old is that book?”

The door opened again, and Yoongi walked in with a coffee in one hand and his usual unreadable calm. “If this is a Project Elrond, I want my codename to be Glorfindel.”

Alice didn’t miss a beat. “This is why I hate working with Earthlings.”

Creed grinned at Yoongi. “You don’t even know what this meeting’s about, do you?”

Yoongi took a seat and set his coffee down with care. “I assumed it had to be important if Matt called us all in here so urgently.”

Mateo looked up at last and slid a tablet across the table toward Dean. “Show them.”

Dean nodded, suddenly serious. His energy had been buzzing all morning, barely contained, but now it focused. He stood, pulled a few random objects from the table—a stapler, a mug, a stylus—and laid them out with quiet purpose.

“I can get Starfire back to M6-117,” he said. “By Sol 320.”

The air shifted. Heads turned. Every unspoken thought hit the same wall: That’s impossible.

Creed narrowed his eyes. “Say that again.”

“Five-six-one,” Dean repeated. “It’s tight. But I’ve run the numbers three times. The trajectory holds.”

Yoongi leaned forward, fingers steepled. “How?”

Dean didn’t sit. He held up the stapler. “This is Starfire, inbound toward Earth. They’re supposed to decelerate soon, prep for orbit. But what if they don’t? What if we tell them to skip the braking burn and use M6’s gravity instead?”

He swung the stapler in a wide arc toward Yoongi’s mug. “They slingshot. Pick up velocity, not lose it. We intercept the Argo probe on the way through. Resupply mid-sling.”

“With what?” Alice asked.

“Food. Fuel. Life support modules,” Mateo said. “Whatever we can get packed into the probe before it meets them.”

Dean pointed with the stylus. “After resupply, they make the burn straight back to M6-117. But there’s no time to decelerate. It’s a flyby.”

Alice frowned. “That’s useless unless—”

“Unless Y/N meets them in orbit,” Dean said. “MAV launch. She matches trajectory and speed, intercepts them mid-pass, and they haul ass home.”

The table was silent. Not confused—calculating. Each mind tracking the feasibility, the mechanics, the margin of error.

Dean took a breath. “It’s all there. The math checks out.”

Yoongi sat back slowly. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Leave the room.”

Dean’s face fell. “Wait, what?”

“You’re done for now,” Yoongi said quietly. “We need to talk.”

Dean hesitated, looked around the room, then gathered his notes and walked out. The door clicked behind him.

Yoongi turned to Mateo. “Is he right?”

Mateo gave a slow nod. “His math’s clean. No gaps in the logic. If the Argo resupply works—and if Y/N can get the MAV off the ground—it’s viable.”

Alice’s brow furrowed. “So what’s the tradeoff?”

Mateo didn’t pause. “We only have one Argo. We use it to resupply Starfire, or we send it to Y/N directly with enough food to keep her alive until Helion Nexus arrives.”

Alice leaned back, thinking. “No backup?”

“No second probe. No margin,” Creed said. “We built one. We launched one. That’s it.”

“And what about the crew?” she asked. “What does this add to their mission?”

Mateo looked her in the eye. “Three hundred twenty days.”

Creed didn’t hesitate. “They’ll do it. All of them. You don’t even have to ask.”

“That’s the point,” Mateo said. “We don’t want to ask. Jimin shouldn’t have to carry this decision.”

Alice blinked. “Commander Park.”

Creed nodded. “Her family. Her former commander. If we put it in front of him, it’s over. He’ll say yes, and we all know it.”

Yoongi exhaled, his gaze shifting to the ceiling for a moment. “Can the ship make it?”

Mateo nodded. “It was built for extended missions. All five Nexus launches. It can handle the time.”

“And if anything fails out there?”

Mateo didn’t blink. “Then we lose all of them.”

Marco’s voice was soft but clear. “So it’s a question of one life… or six.”

The words hung in the room like smoke.

No one spoke.

Then slowly, every head turned to Yoongi.

He didn’t rush. Just sat there, staring at the table, eyes distant. The room was quiet except for the quiet hum of the vent overhead and the faint ticking of the wall clock.

After a long pause, he said, “We still have a safe way to bring five people home. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

Creed’s hands curled into fists on the table. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Let them make that decision.”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

“We’re going with option one,” he said.

Creed stood. Slowly. The chair scraped sharply against the floor as he pushed it back.

He held Yoongi’s gaze, jaw tight.

“You goddamn coward,” And he walked out.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The airlock sealed behind her with a low hiss—routine, automated, impersonal. Y/N didn’t look back.

She stepped onto the dusty ground with the same slow, measured movements that had come to define her. Not fatigue exactly—she was long past the point of real exhaustion. This was inertia. Survival-mode autopilot. Her boots dragged slightly with each step, her gait uneven from the ache in her hip that hadn’t gone away since the last hard fall.

The brush in her hand was stiff, its bristles worn down to the point of uselessness. She’d meant to replace it weeks ago, but every time she thought about digging through the storage crates, she ran out of momentum. So the brush stayed. Dull, frayed, familiar.

Ahead, the solar panels stretched in a broken line across the plateau—dust-caked, half-buried in places, their surfaces dull under the constant pale light. Cleaning them had become a ritual. Not for efficiency anymore. Not for system optimization. Just something to do. A reason to put on the suit. A reason to move.

She reached the edge of the first panel and lifted the brush.

Then stopped.

Her hand hovered midair, fingers locked around the handle. For a moment she just stared, unmoving, her helmet visor reflecting a warped image of herself against the glassy surface of the panel.

She let the brush fall.

It landed with a soft thunk against the dust and lay still. The sound barely registered. Even the wind felt half-asleep, carrying only the faintest rasp of fine sand.

She stood there, breathing slow, not entirely sure what she was waiting for.

Then, without making a conscious decision, she turned and walked. Not toward the Hab. Not toward the rover. Toward the low ridge that curved beyond the eastern edge of the old settlement site—the one she visited sometimes when the air inside got too heavy.

Her spot.

The only place that felt slightly other on a planet that never changed.

The slope was gentle, but it took effort. Her suit was already too warm, the sun already high. She climbed anyway, boots crunching against loose rock, the incline chewing at her thighs. At the top, she sank down, legs folding beneath her with a graceless drop, and sat.

Not to rest.

Not to think.

Just to stop.

Below her, the empty valley stretched endlessly in all directions. The remnants of Colony 212’s initial outpost lay half-swallowed by dust—crumpled scaffolding, shattered survey drones, the twisted frame of a greenhouse torn apart by a windstorm before she’d even landed here.

The suns were low now. Three pale coins bleeding sideways light across the ridgeline, elongating shadows until the rocks themselves looked like reaching hands. She closed her eyes.

And stayed that way.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. She lost track.

By the time she opened them again, the sky had changed. The suns were climbing again—merciless, blinding—and the world had gone from dim orange to stark, clinical white. Her suit’s internal alarm chirped, then escalated to a shrill beep.

TEMP WARNING: EXTERNAL ENVIRONMENT UNSAFE.

She silenced it with a few taps.

Her throat felt dry. She didn’t feel like moving.

She didn’t want to go back to the Hab. Not yet.

And that was when something caught her eye—just a flicker of light in the dust. A glint. Not bright. Just out of place enough to make her turn her head.

Near her boot, half-buried in grit, was something metallic.

She crouched automatically, fingers brushing the sand aside. The object revealed itself slowly—a long, slender drill shaft, pitted with corrosion but unmistakably familiar. A specimen drill, the kind issued during the early survey missions.

She stared at it, frowning.

It hadn’t been there the last time she climbed this hill. At least, not visibly. The storms must’ve uncovered it, shaken it loose from whatever shallow grave had hidden it all these years.

She turned it over in her hands. The serial tag was mostly scrubbed, but she recognized the build—an older model, standard during the early M6 surface ops. Pre-colonization. The drill tip was blunted. A few of the threads were stripped. But it still had weight.

Her eyes followed a faint line in the sand—tracks, barely visible. The kind only time and wind could etch. They led toward a jagged rock formation nearby, one she’d passed a dozen times without looking twice.

She stood and followed the line.

Near the base of the rock, holes had been drilled—precise, methodical, in a pattern meant for core sampling. But they were shallow. Incomplete. As if the mission that had started here had been cut off mid-execution.

Y/N crouched again and ran her gloved fingers across the markings. The ridges were still sharp. It hadn’t eroded completely. She paused, hand resting against the surface.

It didn’t feel like just another piece of equipment forgotten by some long-dead operation. It felt… interrupted.

She sat back on her heels, the drill resting across her lap.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The low hum of NOSA Mission Control ticked along at its usual pace—monitors blinking, quiet conversations traded in clipped tones, the soft churn of machines doing what they were built to do. Underneath it all, that familiar background drone: the sound of systems keeping time in space.

But at April Borne’s console, none of it registered.

She sat forward in her chair, posture tight, eyes fixed on the center screen like it might flinch. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to react, but frozen for the moment. Around her, the world moved in quiet circuits. At her station, the world had narrowed to one: M6-117.

Three displays surrounded her, each showing a different slice of telemetry—orbital drift, atmospheric density, biosuit vitals. She moved between them with ease, toggling overlays, tracking sensor shifts in real time. She wasn’t new anymore. She’d learned what mattered.

But one feed didn’t change.

Front and center: the live camera stream from an orbital relay, trained on a wide plateau. The camera wasn’t automated. April had locked it manually an hour ago. She didn’t want the feed to lose her.

On-screen, a single figure moved slowly across the dust-blasted landscape. An EVA suit, patched and sand-worn, its silhouette tiny in the frame. Step. Pause. Step. Pause.

Y/N.

April didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched.

Then, softly, without looking up, she spoke.

“She’s been out almost all day.”

Behind her, Mateo Gomez stood with his arms crossed, his weight shifting like he couldn’t quite settle. His jaw was tight, eyes glued to the same image. He looked tired in a way that didn’t come from lack of sleep—like his body had forgotten how to let go of tension.

“How many EVAs is that now?” he asked.

April flicked through a tab on the side screen. “Four, officially. Five if you count the solar sweep she did this morning.”

On the feed, Y/N’s figure came to a stop. She bent slightly, adjusted something in her hand, then continued walking—three hundred meters, give or take—before stopping again.

Then again. And again. Same rhythm. Same intervals.

“There’s a pattern,” April said, frowning slightly. “Three hundred-meter increments. Always the same distance between stops.”

“Survey work?” Mateo leaned in. “Did JPL send her updated collection coordinates?”

April shook her head, already checking. “No new packets. I ran a log scan—no inbound data. No flagged instructions. She hasn’t even acknowledged our system pings in four days.”

“So it’s all her,” Mateo murmured.

April nodded once. “She’s marking positions. Deliberate spacing, consistent timing. She’s not scavenging. She’s building something.”

The screen to her left pinged. A soft alert. April’s eyes snapped to it.

“Hold on,” she said. “We just got a packet through the Speculor relay.”

She brought it up quickly, hands moving across the keyboard with purpose. The data decrypted smoothly. It wasn’t a distress call. Not even a voice memo.

It was raw science.

April’s brow creased. “Chemical breakdown—batch 1A-7C. Surface composites. Silica ratios, microstructure modeling, thermal tests...”

Mateo stepped forward fast. “Wait—what batch?”

“1A-7C. Why?”

He stared at the screen for a second. “That’s Oslo’s grid.”

April looked up. “You mean—Colony 212? The geo-mineral mapping project?”

Mateo nodded slowly, as if the pieces were clicking together in real time. “Yeah. Oslo’s team was testing local substrate cohesion. Seeing if the regolith could be mixed and cured into load-bearing material. That data was supposed to drive long-term construction models for outposts. But the Eclipse hit before they finished.”

He leaned closer, eyes narrowing at the screen. “And that number… she’s not guessing. That’s the actual designation. Oslo ran a radial grid—six hundred meters across, three hundred between sample paths.”

April quickly overlaid the coordinates from Y/N’s EVAs onto a legacy terrain map. The grid snapped into place, translucent lines lacing across the dusty plateau.

It was nearly identical.

“Oh my god,” April whispered. “She’s not just collecting. She’s replicating the test grid. Exactly.”

Mateo stood still, like he was watching something sacred.

“She’s not just surviving,” he said quietly. “She’s continuing the mission.”

Y/N’s figure had stopped again, kneeling in the red dust. Her hands moved with slow precision, sealing something into a container—probably a drill sample, maybe a substrate core. There was no rush. No panic.

Just focus.

Purpose.

April sat back slowly, her eyes still fixed on the screen. “She picked up where they left off.”

“She must’ve found Oslo’s notes,” Mateo said. “Maybe from the wreck. Maybe from one of the old surface drives. It doesn’t matter. She’s finishing the work.”

“No,” April said softly. “She’s continuing it.”

The room shifted around them. Not louder—just heavier. The kind of silence that settles when something meaningful happens and no one wants to interrupt it.

On the feed, Y/N stood again. Adjusted her grip on a sampling tube. Walked three hundred more meters. Stopped. Crouched.

She was following a dead man’s path.

She was finishing what history had abandoned.

Mateo exhaled. His voice came out hoarse.

“She’s doing the science.”

April didn’t respond at first. She just kept watching.

Then she leaned forward, eyes bright behind tired lashes.

“That’s not what we expected her to do,” she said. “After the crash. After everything. I thought—honestly? I thought she’d hunker down. Try to stay warm. Make peace with the end.”

“She was never built for that,” Mateo said. “She’s a problem-solver. If she couldn’t be rescued, she’d figure out how to be useful.”

He watched her take another knee, dig gently into the ground.

“That girl is a fucking superstar,” he murmured. “Even when no one’s watching.”

And for the first time in days, the tension in Mission Control eased—not with certainty, but with clarity.

April’s screen updated again—new readings, a fresh transmission of spectrographic data. She sat up straighter, readying the next pass.

Across the room, techs leaned in a little closer. Conversations quieted. Chairs scooted forward.

Because for all the things they didn’t know yet—how to bring her home, how to explain what she was doing, how to protect her legacy—they understood one thing now:

She hadn’t stopped.

She had found a reason to keep going.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The Hab was silent, save for the steady, rhythmic scrape of stone on ceramic.

Y/N sat at the experiment table, hunched over, sleeves rolled back to the elbows of her pressure-rated thermal undersuit. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency, knuckles red and chapped, nails bitten down to the quick. She brought the pestle down again—firm but controlled—grinding the coarse sediment sample into something closer to a usable grain. Not powder. Not paste. Just enough to test. Just enough to keep going.

The makeshift chem kit in front of her was stained with dust and old reactions, once-white trays now tinged with rust-colored residue. Glassware clinked softly as she shifted her weight. The solvent vial sloshed—half-full, if she was generous.

This part of the job wasn’t hard. Not physically. But it demanded a kind of patience that only survival had taught her. The precision of it gave her something to anchor to. A routine. A reason to move from one hour into the next.

She didn’t look up when she started talking. She didn’t need to. The camera, mounted across the room, was already rolling. It had been for hours. Most days, it was easier to pretend someone was watching. Even if she knew better.

“They evac’d eighteen sols into a thirty-one-sol mission,” she said quietly, the words emerging through a clenched jaw. “Eighteen. That’s how long Colony 212 lasted before everything went sideways. Which means they only got thirteen sols of science logged. Thirteen days.”

Her hand moved without pause—sample bag to mortar, pressure, grind, transfer to the tray. Repeat.

“For each of them,” she added, her voice lower now. “That’s what they left behind.”

She reached for a second tray—one marked with Oslo’s original numbering system, the labels half-scratched out, rewritten in her own handwriting. Neat. Slanted. A little messy in the corners, but legible. Human.

“Commander Oslo,” she said, almost conversationally. “You get the easy one. Mineral bonding profiles, structural cohesion. Hard science. Repeatable tests. The kind of thing even someone half-awake with a hangover can finish.”

She paused, adding a few drops of reactive solution. It fizzed faintly, curling steam against the inside of the tray cover.

“I hope your afterlife’s better than your last moments on this rock,” she muttered. “I really do.”

She glanced up, just briefly, toward the camera. Her mouth curved into something like a smile—thin, ironic, but not cruel.

“Jung, listen. I’m gonna be honest with you. I don’t understand chemolithotrophic detection. Not really. I read your notes three times and still couldn’t tell if you were looking for life or just bored. But I’m trying, okay? I’m running the tests.”

Her gaze flicked to the far side of the workbench, where a row of empty sample tubes waited to be filled.

“And Cruz,” she said, her voice lifting a notch with mock solemnity, “I know you didn’t like it when I touched the ChemCam. You made that very clear. Well. Guess what?”

She reached for the unit, brushing it with the back of her hand like a cat knocking something off a shelf.

“I’m touching the ChemCam. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Zero consequences. Viva la anarchy.”

The joke landed quietly, with a faint shake of her head.

She kept working, transferring notes from a test strip to her master log—an old ration box she’d flattened and drawn a grid on in marker. Real paper. Real pen. The graphite snapped halfway through a sentence, and she calmly flipped to a pencil stub with a taped-on eraser.

“Zimmermann,” she said, a little more gently now, “I made a cataloging system. It's rough, but it works. I’m calling it ‘Das Core Samples,’ because I figured you’d like the pun. You know. For the Fatherland.”

She didn’t laugh at her own joke, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Nguyen…” She paused. “I still don’t know what you did. Seriously. I looked it up. Your title said ‘systems integration and adaptive redundancy.’ Which—I think means... backup stuff? No clue. I hope someone back home got your job title translated before your plaque was engraved.”

The words hung in the air, but there was no venom in them. Just tired affection. The kind you had for coworkers you never really knew but still missed when they were gone.

She turned back to the test rack, sorting the samples into clean, labeled sleeves. Every move was methodical, deliberate. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t wasting time either.

“I’m trying to keep everything organized,” she said after a while. Her voice was softer now. “Documented. Archived. I know it’s not exactly my strength.”

She wiped the corner of her eye with the back of one hand, smudging a line of dust across her cheek.

“But I want it to make sense,” she added. “In case... someone comes later.”

She reached across the table for a clean data tag and etched the next code into it with the edge of her multitool. Her hands didn’t tremble.

“Maybe someone will teach it in class one day. ‘The Frenchie Syllabus.’” She let the words linger, then smiled—a real one, this time. “Intro to Improvised Civil Engineering: How to Build a Bathtub Using NOSA Tubing and an Old RTG.”

Her smile faded just slightly, but her voice remained steady.

“Intermediate Cuisine: How to Cook a Potato Six Thousand Ways. Advanced Chemistry: How to Make Water Out of Rocket Fuel. Maybe don’t blow yourselves up like I did.”

She looked back at the camera.

Then, wordlessly, turned back to her samples and kept working.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The Starfire was quiet, save for the soft whir of filtered air and the constant, almost imperceptible hum of the ship’s primary drive coils in idle mode. The kind of silence that didn’t just surround you—it settled in. Wore into your bones over time.

Armin Zimmermann sat alone at the aft systems console, strapped into the harness more out of habit than necessity. His diagnostics had finished a full ten minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved. The screen in front of him still blinked its green confirmation lights in time with his pulse.

He scrolled absently through his inbox, expecting the usual: systems logs from JPL, status updates from mission ops, the occasional joke from Jung or Cruz buried in the metadata of a routine check.

But then his eyes landed on a message that didn’t fit.

Subject: Unsere Kinder.

He stared at it.

Our children.

Armin frowned. It wasn’t a phrase Kelly would normally use. They didn’t speak German with each other much—not anymore. His wife preferred English, and emails were usually short, efficient. News from Earth. Photos of their daughter. No riddles.

He hesitated, then clicked.

The body of the email was empty. No text. No signature. Just a single attachment: a .txt file, small and unassuming.

He tapped it open.

The screen populated instantly—lines of symbols, not quite random but not immediately readable either. Mathematical notations, directional headings, numbers too specific to be coincidence and too disorganized to be deliberate.

A sharp edge settled in his chest.

He stared at the file, heart rate rising. The longer he looked, the more his instincts screamed that this wasn’t a mistake or spam or a misdirected file.

This was a message.

Armin unstrapped, pushed off the console wall, and glided through the corridor with practiced, weightless ease. The ship was familiar under his palms—every panel, every joint, every slight bump in the composite wall plating. The kind of familiarity that only came with months in orbit, where even silence had a pattern.

He found Valencia Cruz in the ship’s rotating gym module, her strides steady on the curved track. The artificial gravity was low—just enough to make cardio unpleasant, just low enough to make injuries dangerous. She was in the zone, sweat on her brow, earbuds in.

Armin tapped the console by the entrance. The door hissed open.

Val looked up, spotted him, and slowed. “You okay?” she asked, voice breathless.

“I have a problem,” Armin said.

She stopped the treadmill, wiped her face with a towel, and stepped out of the rotation ring. “You don’t usually say that unless something’s on fire.”

He handed her the tablet. “My wife sent this. At least, it says it’s from her.”

Val took it, leaning against the bulkhead. She swiped through the file. Her brow furrowed. “It’s not an image,” she muttered. “Not corrupted either. It’s a clean text file. Plain ASCII.”

She tapped to expand the lines. The screen filled with patterns. Coordinates. Variables. Formulas layered between what looked like navigation flags and arcane mission notations.

“This isn’t random,” she said, more to herself now. “These look like… course headings. Vectors. And this—this might be delta-v tables?”

Armin nodded slowly. “I thought so too.”

Val looked up. “Any idea what it’s for?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the data again, fingers brushing over the screen like he was trying to feel the meaning in the numbers.

Then his voice caught—quiet, clipped. “Here. This is a reference to the Marblemaw Maneuver. It’s a theoretical slingshot burn. Dean published a paper on it two years ago, but I think I’m the only person who actually read it.”

“You’re saying this is from Dean?”

He shook his head. “No. But someone used his math. Dean wouldn’t be able to get clearance to send this. Has to be a big guy at NOSA, but that still doesn’t explain why it was sent to you from Kelly’s inbox.” 

Val’s eyebrows drew together as she focused on one line that stood out, bolded in a sea of plain text.

SOL 320.

They both stared at it.

The number hit Armin like a punch to the gut. He reached for the wall to steady himself, the zero-g making him sway.

“Oh mein Gott ,” he whispered.

Val stared at the screen, then at him.

“You think it’s about her.”

He nodded once.

Val didn’t look up from the screen. Her fingers were already moving, copying the data into her private log and running checksum validations. Not to confirm the file’s source—she already knew it wasn’t junk—but to stabilize it. There was a chance it could disappear as quickly as it came.

Armin hovered for a second, his jaw tight. Then he pushed off the bulkhead and turned toward the main corridor. “I’m getting the others.”

Val nodded without taking her eyes off the text. “I’ll see what else I can pull from it.”

Val was still at the terminal, but now her fingers hovered just above the screen, not typing—just staring. She’d parsed most of the file. Enough to know what it was. Enough to feel her chest go tight with the implications.

She heard the others enter before she turned—Armin, Jung, Nguyen, each one quieter than the last. No one cracked a joke. No one asked for coffee.

Jimin Park wasn’t with them yet.

Val looked up, then at Armin. “You told him?”

“He was on the call deck talking to Uma,” Armin said. “He’s coming.”

She nodded once, then sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. The data still glowed on the screen—numbers, coordinates, trajectory math, and the name SOL 320, burned in bold near the top like it was written in blood.

Nguyen broke the silence first. “It’s real?”

Val glanced at him. “Yes. It’s real.”

“And it was sent to Zimmermann,” Hoseok said, quietly. “Not to JPL. Not to Command.”

“To his wife,” Armin said. “Piggybacked on a family message. They slipped it into the attachment buffer.”

Hoseok gave a low whistle. “That’s a hell of a risk.”

Val didn’t smile. “Which means it’s got to be important. So, it’s a Park call.”

The hatch behind them opened with a pneumatic hiss.

Commander Jimin Park stepped into the room, still in his flight jacket, headset looped around his neck. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes scanned the crew immediately, clocking the tension, the way no one made room for small talk.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Val stood. “You need to see this, sir.”

She didn’t say more. Didn’t try to explain. Just stepped aside and offered him her seat at the console. Her tone wasn’t dismissive—it was deliberate. This wasn’t hers to carry.

Jimin sat slowly, glanced at her, then down at the data on-screen.

He started reading.

The others didn’t interrupt.

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft hum of ship systems, the occasional shift of a boot against the deck. Jimin scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing as the math unfurled in layers—positioning burns, delta-v margins, fuel requirements, time dilation calculations.

Then came the header again:

SOL 320.

He froze there, staring.

Val leaned on the back of the chair, her voice low. “It’s a maneuver. Based on Dean Marblemaw’s original slingshot paper, but adapted for our current trajectory. It uses the neighboring planet’s gravity to redirect us back to M6-117. No braking. No orbit insertion. Just one burn, a flyby intercept… and Y/N has to meet us mid-course using the MAV.”

Jimin sat back slowly, his hands resting on the armrests, gaze distant now.

The others watched him. No one pushed. No one dared.

Val broke the silence, her voice softer than before. “I didn’t want to be the one to say it, Commander. This... it’s not a decision for any of us to make. Not really.”

He looked up at her.

“I trust you,” she said.

The room held still as he looked at each of them in turn. Jung. Nguyen. Armin. Val.

They all waited for him to speak—not out of deference to rank, but because they knew what this meant. Y/N wasn’t just a crewmate. She wasn’t just a scientist on another rock.

She was his family.

And now she was a question hanging in space.

After a moment, he leaned forward, shoulders stiff with the gravity of it all.

“Get me everything,” he said. “Engine specs, margin of error, fuel thresholds. We don’t move unless we know it can be done.”

Val nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

He stood slowly, gaze still on the screen.

“And we keep this off Command until I say otherwise.”

“Of course, sir,” She grinned.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The crew of the Starfire sat around the narrow rec table, their knees brushing beneath it, shoulders hunched closer than comfort allowed. The lights overhead were dimmed, low power mode humming softly through the ship’s systems like a second heartbeat. Empty ration wrappers floated lazily in the corner, caught in the stagnant air.

The ship’s artificial gravity drum wasn’t active tonight. No one felt like turning it on. No one felt like pretending.

Jimin leaned forward, elbows resting on the scratched tabletop, fingers loosely laced. His voice was steady, if a little hoarse from speaking too long in the too-thin air.

“And assuming the burn goes clean, the maneuver takes us into a solar flyby, past Earth. The intercept brings us home in... 211 days after rendezvous,” he said. “Give or take.”

Silence followed. The crew looked at one another, the numbers hanging there like frost on the walls. No one moved. The weight of what he’d said hadn’t settled. It was still drifting, still searching for a place to land.

Koah broke the stillness first, his voice hesitant. “That would actually work?”

Jimin nodded. “The math’s sound. I ran it with Armin. Val checked the burn window against the latest telemetry. The fuel reserves are tight, but within margins.”

Koah rubbed a hand over his face, then let it drop to the table. “That’s wild,” he muttered. “It’s brilliant.”

Armin, who hadn’t spoken since they sat down, leaned forward. “It is brilliant. And it wasn’t mine.”

He looked up. “Whoever sent that file knew our vector. They built a burn profile around our exact rotation, our real-time acceleration data. It’s too specific to be theoretical.”

Hoseok Jung exhaled hard, his arms folded across his chest. “Okay. But why the encrypted file? Why send it to you and not Command?”

Jimin looked at him. “Because NOSA already said no.”

He let the silence hold a second longer before continuing. “They weighed the risks and made their choice. Rescue her later, not now. Safer for us, statistically. But someone disagreed. Someone back home—someone with access—wanted us to have another option.”

“So we’d be overriding the chain of command,” Koah said, brows knitting. “Making a decision they explicitly rejected.”

“Yes,” Jimin said. “If we do this,” he continued, “we’ll force their hand. They’d have no choice but to send the supply probe to intercept us on the return arc. If they don’t, we starve. But they will. Because the alternative is letting six astronauts die on a public feed, live and slow.”

Koah leaned back, eyes locked on the ceiling. The metal above him was marked with signatures—names from Nexus I and II, left like chalk on a wall before graduation. Most of them were still alive.

This would make sure of it.

“Are we doing it?” Valencia asked finally. Her voice was calm, but there was something brittle at the edge of it. She looked tired. They all did.

Jimin shook his head. “It’s not my call.”

Koah blinked. “You’re the commander.”

“I am,” Jimin said. “Which means I know when something is beyond the scope of command. This isn’t a mission deviation. This is a mutiny.”

The word hung in the room like static.

He let it sit before continuing, his voice low. “You need to understand what this is. If we commit and the maneuver fails, we’ll burn too much fuel to get back. If we miss the MAV intercept, we lose the rendezvous and she dies. If we miss the unnamed planet’s gravity corridor by half a degree, we spiral off-course for good. And even if we pull it off... it adds 213 days to our mission clock.”

He paused. Let the numbers soak in.

“213 more days in space. No resupply planned. No re-entry window guaranteed. Something breaks—something simple, something stupid, like a heat exchanger or a water recycler—and we die out here.”

No one moved.

“And even if we don’t die,” he added, “some of us are military. Koah and I would face court-martial. The rest of you? You’d never fly again.”

A long beat passed.

Then Koah gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, I figured.” He looked at Jimin. “You really think I care about flight status after this? Frenchie’s out there alone.”

“She’d die,” Armin said quietly.

Koah nodded. “Then yeah. I’m in.”

“Don’t rush it,” Jimin warned. “This is the kind of decision that doesn’t come off your record. Ever.”

Koah met his gaze. “Then I’ll make it count.”

Hoseok tapped a finger against the table, then looked up. “We can’t ignore it. If there’s a shot—hell, if there’s even a chance she’s alive—we take it. We’re not leaving her out there.”

Jimin turned to Val. She hadn’t spoken. She’d just been watching him.

Of all of them, she looked the most conflicted—not reluctant, just... aware. Her eyes were sharp, calculating. And scared, in a way only someone with full knowledge of the risk could be.

“Val,” Jimin said.

She exhaled slowly. Ran a thumb along the edge of the table. Then finally, she nodded.

“One condition,” she said. “We finish the math. Every inch of it. No gaps. No ‘close enough.’ We run this thing until it bleeds numbers.”

Jimin gave a slow, sure nod. “Agreed.”

Val looked around the room—at the faces of the people she’d flown with, laughed with, broken with—and when her gaze came back to Jimin’s, her voice was clear.

“Let’s go get her.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•      

Brendan Hatch sat slouched at the front console in Mission Control, elbows on the desk, one hand wrapped loosely around a paper cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. The graveyard shift was always the same—quiet, steady, unremarkable. Background hum from systems, low chatter from telemetry and comms, a few tired engineers trading stories in hushed tones. It was routine, predictable.

That’s why he liked it.

He took a slow sip and winced. The coffee tasted like rust and burnt toast.

The voice in his headset broke the calm.

“Flight, CAPCOM.”

Brendan straightened a bit, instinct overriding fatigue. “Go ahead, CAPCOM.”

“We’ve got a... strange ping from Starfire. Unscheduled update, came in just now. One-line transmission.”

Brendan set the cup down. “One line? What kind of line?”

There was a pause on the other end, and when the CAPCOM spoke again, their voice held a note Brendan didn’t like. Hesitation.

“No system flags, no distress codes. Just this: ‘Houston, be advised. Dean Marblemaw is a steely-eyed missile man.’ That’s the whole message.”

Brendan blinked.

He turned slowly toward Guidance, who was already swiveling in his seat with a raised brow.

“Dean who?”

“Not a clue,” CAPCOM replied. “Checked personnel. Checked payload specialists. No one onboard Starfire by that name.”

Brendan opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t get the chance.

Alarms screamed to life.

First one console, then another—flashing red across telemetry, guidance, propulsion. The hum of the room shattered. Chairs scraped, voices rose. The quiet rhythm of Mission Control was gone in an instant, replaced by controlled chaos.

Brendan shot to his feet. “Guidance, report!”

“Flight, Starfire’s orbital vector just shifted,” came the answer, fast and clipped. “They’ve made a burn. Large. Coordinated.”

Brendan’s gut tightened. “Drift?”

“Negative. No drift. This wasn’t passive. They changed trajectory. On purpose.”

“What’s the delta?”

“Twenty-seven point eight one two degrees. Relative to prior flight path.”

Brendan swore softly under his breath, jaw clenched. “CAPCOM, get them on comms. Ask what the hell they’re doing.”

“They’re not responding, Flight. Not acknowledging the transmission request.”

“Jesus Christ,” Brendan muttered. “Guidance, time to irreversible course commit?”

“Working on it.”

“Telemetry,” he snapped, turning toward the woman two rows back. “Any chance this is instrumentation error? False reading?”

“No, Flight,” she replied, already typing. “Confirmed from both uplink satellites. This is real-time. The burn profile is clean. Intentional.”

Brendan ran a hand over his face, pushing back the throb that had started behind his eyes.

“Flight,” CAPCOM again. “Still no response from Starfire. No autopilot anomaly. Manual controls engaged. This is them.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then the propulsion tech let out a breath. “It’s a slingshot.”

Brendan turned to him. “What?”

“The numbers. It’s not a decel. It’s a gravity-assist prep burn.”

He turned back to his console, pulling up the star map. The trajectory arced not toward Earth, but around it—shaving close, building speed.

“They’re not coming home,” the tech said. “They’re slingshotting Earth. Back out. Somewhere else.”

A long silence stretched.

Brendan leaned over the comm desk, both palms flat against the surface, heart pounding.

“CAPCOM,” he said quietly. “Ping orbital intelligence. I want a full trajectory model. And tell me when that slingshot window locks.”

“Aye, Flight.”

“Guidance,” he said, turning again, “when exactly did this maneuver begin?”

“Timestamped at 03:46:18 GMT. Four minutes ago.”

Brendan stared at the screen. The arc was unmistakable now. Clean. Purposeful. A new course already emerging.

He knew what that meant.

He didn’t know how, or why—but this wasn’t a malfunction.

This was intent.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered. “They’ve gone rogue.”

He took a deep breath and leaned into his mic.

“Somebody,” he said, “find out who Dean Marblemaw is—and why the hell he’s hijacked my spaceship.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The early light bled through the windows of NOSA’s executive floor in thin, fractured lines—cold and silver, like the morning hadn’t quite committed to warmth. The city beyond the glass was still quiet, tucked beneath fog and the hush of anticipation.

Yoongi stood at the far end of his office, unmoving, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular—just the smear of light creeping across the skyline. His reflection hovered faintly in the glass, superimposed over the world below like a ghost watching from orbit.

Behind him, the door opened. Footsteps, then a pause.

He didn’t turn.

Creed Summers stood just inside, shoulders squared, silent.

For a moment, neither man spoke. The only sound was the low hum of systems on standby, the distant rattle of a cleaning cart down the hall. That, and the heavy, aching silence of two people carrying the weight of a decision too big for either of them alone.

Finally, Yoongi’s voice broke the stillness.

“Alice goes before the press at nine,” he said, still watching the horizon. “We’ll confirm that we’re supporting Starfire’s new trajectory. Official line is that it was planned. Contingency strategy.”

Creed nodded once. “It’s the right move. Optics, morale. Damage control.”

Yoongi turned, slowly.

He looked tired—not just physically. There was something deeper in the lines around his mouth, the set of his shoulders. Not a man who lacked conviction, but one who had been forced to weigh too many impossible things for too long.

“You may have killed them,” he said.

Creed didn’t flinch, but his face didn’t harden either. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, still and steady. “They made the call.”

Yoongi stepped closer, stopping just behind his desk, fingers brushing against the edge as if grounding himself. “You fed them the math. You knew what they’d do.”

“I gave them information,” Creed said evenly. “That’s all. The choice was theirs.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. “Don’t split hairs. We both know what a team does when you give them a mission and a reason.”

A beat of silence.

Then Yoongi’s voice dropped—quieter, rawer. “You know how fragile this whole damn thing is?”

He looked at Creed now—not as an adversary. As a man trying to hold up a building while the ground cracked beneath it.

“The public, the funding, the next three missions that haven’t even left the floor. I’ve got three senators on the line every day, asking why we haven’t pulled the plug. Why we didn’t bring them home sooner. Why we let her stay behind. Every time someone dies up there—even when it’s the right call—people turn their backs on us. And every time we get lucky, they forget the odds. They stop listening to the numbers. The margin disappears.”

Creed didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Yoongi exhaled, slow and steady, like it physically hurt to say what came next.

“I’m not here to play politics,” he said. “I’m here to keep the program alive. So the people who come next still have something to reach for. I’ve fought tooth and nail to hold this place together—not for power, not for legacy. For continuity. Because once it breaks—once people stop believing we’re worth the risk—it’s gone. And it doesn’t come back.”

Creed’s voice was soft. “She’s not a statistic.”

“I know,” Yoongi said, almost too quickly.

It surprised them both—how fast the words came.

He looked away, swallowing once, then slowly sat at the edge of the desk.

“She’s not a number, Creed. I know who she is. I remember her interview. She had this… fierce optimism. Asked me if she’d be allowed to ‘fix things’ if they broke, or if we’d just tell her to wait for a maintenance bot. She was so sure she could outsmart anything.”

Creed’s posture eased, just slightly. “She kind of has.”

Yoongi let out a low breath that might’ve been a laugh, or something close. “Yeah. I know. I read every log. Every data stream. Every piece of cobbled-together engineering magic she’s pulled off in the dirt. She shouldn’t have lasted two weeks.”

“And yet she’s finishing the colony’s science logs,” Creed said. “Using a frying pan, duct tape, a shitty old drill, and radioactive decay.”

“She’s alive,” Yoongi said, like it was a secret.

“She’s alive,” Creed echoed.

The silence that followed was different now. Heavier, but not hostile. Just honest.

Yoongi stood again, walking back toward the window. The city below was waking. Headlines would be firing up soon. Half the world already knew. By the time Alice hit the podium, the story would be out of their hands.

He stared out at the light for a long moment.

Then, without turning, he said, quietly, “God, I hope you’re right.”

Creed said nothing.

After a few more seconds, Yoongi added, “When this is over, you’ll submit your resignation.”

There was no venom in it. Just gravity. Consequence. A toll paid in silence.

Creed nodded. “I figured.”

Yoongi turned back to him.

“Bring them home,” he said.

Creed gave a small nod—tight, respectful—and left the room without another word.

Yoongi stayed where he was, one hand resting lightly against the windowpane. The sun had climbed a little higher, casting long, sharp shadows across his office.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The sun crawled over the horizon like it was dragging its feet, casting deep red light across the wind-carved ridges of Sundermere Basin. As it climbed, the basin seemed to ignite—rust, gold, and copper spilling across the plain. Heat shimmered early in the day on M6-117. It didn’t build; it simply arrived.

The stillness of the planet, as always, was total. Except for the faint, rhythmic sound of drilling.

Inside the Hab, Y/N sat hunched over her cluttered experiment table, still in her half-unzipped EVA suit. Her hair stuck to the sweat along her temples, her undershirt damp across her spine. A dozen open containers surrounded her—rock samples, rusted tool bits, a half-smashed solar converter she was trying to rewire with salvaged cabling. Her shoulders ached. Everything ached.

The camera blinked red, and she gave it a weary smile.

“Here’s your daily crash course in logistics,” she said, voice hoarse but steady. “Every Nexus mission requires a minimum of three years of presupplies. Fuel, food, oxygen, parts. You don’t pack that kind of bulk on launch day—you land it ahead of time.”

She gestured vaguely to the map that blinked on her tablet. “Which is why the MAV for Nexus-4 is already parked in Sundermere Basin. It got here almost a year before I did. Or... was supposed to.” Her smile faded for just a second. “Anyway. There it is. Waiting.”

Her eyes flicked down to the numbers on the screen—distance, resource counts, route projections. She swallowed, then looked back up.

“The plan is simple,” she said, not even pretending to believe it. “I drive 3,200 kilometers across a planet that actively wants me dead. I bring my oxygenator, my water reclaimer, my atmospheric regulator, my food, my tools, my radiation gear—everything that lets me keep breathing. I install it all into a vehicle I’ve never tested, in conditions it was never prepped for. Then, right as the Starfire passes overhead at orbital velocity, I launch and pray I don’t miss the window.”

She paused, letting that settle. Then gave a dry, lopsided grin.

“Okay, yeah. It sounds insane. But also kind of awesome, right?”

She sat back in her chair, stretching out her sore arms. Her elbow knocked over a tin of screws, which rattled across the table and clattered to the floor. She didn’t bother picking them up.

“Of course,” she added, “that’s future Y/N’s problem.”

Her tone darkened, not bitter, but quieter.

“Right now I’ve got two hundred sols and change to figure out how to convert this glorified golf cart into a spacecraft support vehicle. NOSA’s running the numbers, trying to make miracles happen, but so far the best advice I’ve gotten from Earth has been... and I quote... ‘Drill holes in the roof of your rover and hit it with a rock.’”

She smiled again, brighter this time, then glanced down at the metal plates stacked beside her. “So. Guess that’s what I’m doing today.”

She didn’t log off. She just stood, rolled her shoulders, and got to work.

Later, outside, the three suns were already high in the sky. The light was sharp, clinical. There was no softness here—not from the light, not from the wind, not from the planet. The surface heat rippled like liquid, and the rover baked under it.

Y/N stood on the roof of Speculor-2, bracing her boots against the support bars, a modified drill in her hands. The metal screamed beneath each puncture. The holes didn’t need to be pretty—just precise. Dozens of them, arranged in a ring, traced with chalk from a broken filter cap. Her gloves were stiff with dust. Sweat ran down her back inside the suit, soaking the inner lining.

When she finished the last hole, she set the drill aside and pulled a flathead screwdriver from the pouch at her hip. Then, the rock. She’d chosen it carefully. It had a good weight to it.

The first strike dented the panel. The second left a visible imprint. She kept going.

Each blow echoed through the stillness like a challenge. It was absurd and it was necessary. And it was all she had.

Inside the Hab, the cooler hummed. The lights flickered briefly as she walked in, peeling the top half of the suit from her body. She drank a pouch of electrolyte gel, gagged, then sat down at the small kitchen table, slowly chewing on a cold potato.

One by one, she laid out ration pouches in a line and began marking them in thick black Sharpie.

Departure.

Birthday.

Last Meal.

She hesitated over the final pouch, then wrote something smaller.

If I Don’t Make It.

She capped the marker and sat back, staring at the row.

There was no drama in her expression. Just focus. Acceptance. She’d been past fear for a while now.

Far above the surface, the Starfire had completed its burn. Its course now locked. A ship the size of a small city turned with impossible grace, cutting through the darkness in complete silence. Its panels flared softly in the starlight as it adjusted position, beginning its long arc toward rendezvous.

The engines cooled. The crew settled. Somewhere, someone was running simulations.

But down below, on a world that had tried to kill her a dozen different ways, Y/N was still moving. Still patching. Still planning.

She pulled her notepad back toward her and began sketching the adapter plate that would bridge the MAV’s cockpit to the supply lines from the rover. The drawing was shaky—her fingers cramped—but she kept going.

It was still absurd.

But not impossible.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•      

The video booth on the Starfire wasn’t much more than a glorified storage locker. No insulation, no privacy to speak of—just a narrow alcove welded into the comms deck, with walls so thin you could hear the ship groan during its thermal cycles. A single chair, bolted to the floor. A screen about the size of a dinner tray. That was it.

But to Commander Jimin Park, it had become a kind of chapel.

He came here when he couldn’t sleep. When the silence of the corridors felt too big. When the ship's humming nerves and quiet voices became too much and too little all at once.

Now, he sat forward in the dim light, hands folded tightly between his knees, staring at the flickering terminal as it made contact.

The screen blinked once, twice—and then steadied.

Uma appeared.

Backlit by the warm kitchen glow of their apartment on Aguerra Prime. She stood in front of the counter, arms folded across her chest, her silhouette unmistakable. Behind her, the sky beyond the window was still black. Early morning. That fragile hour before the city started breathing again.

Her hair was pulled into a messy knot—loose, a little unkempt, wisps of it curling around her face. No makeup. No filters. Just Uma. Raw and real and exhausted. Her eyes were puffy, like she hadn’t slept much. Like she’d maybe cried in the bathroom and then come back out without pretending it hadn’t happened.

Jimin stared at her a moment longer than he meant to. He drank her in like she might vanish if he blinked too hard.

But when she spoke, there was no softness in her voice.

“Five hundred and thirty-three days.”

It wasn’t a greeting. It wasn’t even anger, not really. It was the kind of flat, sharp-edged fact that cut deeper than yelling ever could.

“You added five hundred and thirty-three days to your mission,” she said. “And you didn’t even call first.”

He didn’t flinch. He’d had this conversation a hundred times in his head. None of them made it easier.

“I know,” he said, quiet. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head—not in disbelief. That stage had passed. This was something colder. A sadness so layered it had started calcifying into sarcasm.

“Did you even think about us? Me? Hana?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Do you even remember how old she’ll be when you get back?”

He didn’t look away. “Almost five.”

“She’ll barely remember you,” Uma said. Her voice cracked slightly on the word remember, but she pushed through it.

“I know.”

Her arms tightened across her stomach. He could see it—how hard she was trying not to let herself break, not here, not on a grainy video call with a six-second delay.

“You’re signing up for seven more months of silence,” she said. “When I went through IVF. When I was pregnant. While I give birth. While I recover. While our daughter goes to her first day of school and asks why the other kids’ dads come to pick them up. And all she’s got is a photograph and a voice memo from orbit.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, just to breathe. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the Starfire behind him.

“I know,” he said again, voice low. “You’re right.”

“You think I care about being right?” she snapped, and then immediately softened, as if the sharpness had drained what little strength she had left.

Her hand came up slowly to her face, like she hadn’t even noticed it moving. She rubbed at her temple with the heel of her palm, as if trying to smooth out the ache that had settled behind her eyes. Then her hand dropped to her belly.

“I had contractions yesterday,” she said.

Jimin’s breath caught, barely audible over the low hum of the booth’s systems. His whole body stilled. Only his eyes moved—searching hers across the grainy feed like he might read something more, something urgent.

Uma didn’t give him time to respond.

“I was alone,” she said. “Scared.”

Her voice didn’t tremble. She said it with the kind of flat honesty that came after a long night of holding yourself together.

“I called my parents,” she added, more quietly now. “They won’t make it in time. Customs delays—they’re stuck off-world until next week. Rose and Sean are staying with me through the delivery, which is… fine. Really. They’ve been amazing.”

She paused, and for a moment, her eyes softened—but not toward comfort. Toward grief.

“But they’re not you, Chim.”

She looked down, hand still resting on her belly. Her other arm wrapped around her midsection like she was trying to hold something in, or maybe keep something out. When she looked back up at him, the bravado had cracked wide open. What remained was raw and quiet and impossibly human.

“I didn’t want to meet our son without you.”

Jimin leaned in slowly, like he could close the light-years between them with body language alone. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Swallowed hard. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough-edged and barely steady.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “You’re meeting him in a world where I already love him more than I ever thought I could love anyone. That has to count for something. I know it’s not the same. God, Uma, I know it’s not. But it’s true.”

His voice caught, and he pushed past it. “Rose and Sean—listen, they’ll take care of you like you’re theirs. I made sure of that before I left. I should’ve told you sooner. I should’ve done a lot of things sooner.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“I’m so sorry I’m not there with you.”

Uma turned away, just slightly, dabbing at her face with the sleeve of her sweater. Not hiding the tears—just trying to stay upright through them.

“I called him Riker,” she said after a pause. “I know we were still deciding. I know we said we’d wait. But it felt right. Last night I was reading those baby books Quinn gave me, and I whispered it to him. And he kicked.”

Jimin’s throat clenched. He didn’t trust himself to say anything at first.

“Riker,” he repeated finally, like he was testing the word in his mouth for the first time. “Yeah. That’s his name.”

She smiled—small, real. Her chin trembled.

“He looks like you,” she said. “From the scans. Same nose. It’s hard to get clear pictures because he keeps tossing and turning, but I just know just like I knew Hana would.”

“I wanted to be the first one to hold him,” Jimin said, voice low.

Uma nodded. “Then get your ass home.”

He chuckled, breathless. “Working on it.”

He leaned in even closer, his hand hovering near the edge of the console like he might reach through it. “I’ll come home to you, Uma. I swear to you. I’ll crawl back if I have to.”

“I believe you,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Her hand came up again, touching the screen gently. Jimin mirrored the gesture. Their fingertips aligned through the glass—no warmth, no pressure. Just the image. Just the intention.

A silence settled between them. Not empty. Just full of the things that didn’t need to be said aloud. Years of late nights. Early mornings. Fights. Laughter. Hana’s first steps. The quiet promise of a life they were still trying to build.

Then Jimin spoke again, more carefully now.

“She’s like my sister,” he said. “I know that’s not in the job description. I know it wasn’t supposed to matter. But I made the call. I stayed. I would do it again.”

Uma pulled back slightly, sitting straighter. Her arms folded across her chest. The tears were drying, but her eyes stayed hard, focused.

“You think I don’t understand why you did it?”

He didn’t answer. He knew better than to try.

“I do,” she said. “But you didn’t tell me. You didn’t even give me a choice. I had to find out from a system ping that you were extending your mission—seven more months, just dropped into my inbox like a goddamn package delivery.”

She shook her head. “You’re going to miss your son being born, Jimin.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

He leaned in again, pressing his palm to the console like it might carry the weight of what he wanted to say.

“You would’ve told me to go,” he said, quiet. “If I’d asked.”

“Of course I would’ve. But you didn’t ask. That’s the part that hurts.”

He nodded once, slowly. “Then be furious. Be as mad as you want. I’ll take it all. I just…” He swallowed again. “Please don’t stop talking to me.”

Uma stared at him for a long time.

Her face didn’t shift. Not right away. Her arms were still crossed, her jaw still tight, and for a moment, Jimin wondered if she was even going to say anything. Then she exhaled—long, controlled—and the line of her shoulders softened. Just slightly. Not in surrender, but in recognition.

That quiet, painful kind of understanding that only happens between people who know each other too well to lie.

“ Goddamn it , Chim,” she muttered, voice low. “You’d better bring her back.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not entirely. But it wasn’t anger either. It was something deeper. Something closer to faith. The kind that could only survive if you’d been through fire together and still chose to look each other in the eye.

Jimin’s shoulders sagged, just a little. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to let some of the weight slip off his chest for the first time in days.

“That’s the plan,” he said.

Uma didn’t respond right away. She just reached forward again, her hand finding the edge of the screen. This time, her fingers trembled.

Jimin mirrored her instinctively, pressing his palm to the glass. Their hands aligned—pixels and pressure, no warmth, no real contact—but it was the closest thing they had to touch.

They stayed like that, neither speaking. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full—of late-night talks and shared routines, of old fights and quiet reconciliations, of watching their daughter sleep between them on the couch and arguing about whose turn it was to clean out the recycling chute.

It was the silence of people who knew how to sit in each other’s pain.

Finally, Uma spoke. Her voice was quieter now, but not small. It was steady. Honest.

“Bring my favorite sister-in-law home.”

Jimin’s lip twitched. He gave a tired smile that almost—almost—reached his eyes.

“She’s your only sister-in-law.”

Uma rolled her eyes, that familiar flicker of fire slipping back in. “Whatever, Orphan Annie. That just makes the title easier to maintain. Don’t get cocky.”

He laughed. Really laughed. It came from somewhere deep in his chest, cracking through the weariness like sunlight through storm clouds. The kind of laugh that reminded him what it felt like to be more than just a uniform and a mission file.

Uma smiled too, but it faded quickly, replaced by something gentler. Something sad.

“I should go,” she said, glancing off-screen. “Hana’s about to wake up, and I don’t think our connection is going to last long enough for her to talk to you. It’d break her heart if she only got a few seconds.”

Jimin’s smile faltered. He nodded, slow. “She still asking?”

“Every morning,” Uma said. “She stands at the window and asks when the stars are going to give you back.”

His chest tightened. “What do you tell her?”

Uma’s voice was soft, but firm. “I tell her the stars are just slow. Like her dad.”

Jimin chuckled under his breath. “Exactly like her dad.”

Uma glanced down, brushing something off her lap, then looked back at the screen. “She still sleeps with that stupid plush helmet you gave her.”

“She named it Captain Helmet, right?”

“ Lieutenant Helmet,” Uma corrected. “She demoted it last week for insubordination.”

Jimin barked another laugh, “That tracks.”

In the corner of the screen, a red light started to blink—connection timer winding down.

Neither of them said anything right away. They both knew what that light meant. They both knew how these calls ended.

“I love you,” Uma said.

“I love you,” Jimin said, the words catching at the edges of his throat.

The screen flickered.

Then it went dark.

The booth filled with the soft hum of life support again. A steady pulse of recycled air, a low mechanical whisper—just enough to remind Jimin he was back on the ship. Back in the silence.

He didn’t move.

Not for a while.

He just sat there, one hand still resting against the blank screen, the echo of Uma’s voice lingering in his chest. He had hoped Hana would be there today. She would’ve made him feel better about this whole thing.

Eventually, he stood. Adjusted his collar. Wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Then he turned and stepped out into the corridor, the weight of two promises—one to his wife, one to Y/N—pulling him forward.

Because there was work to be done.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The lab at JPL was immaculate—sterile white walls, overhead lights humming in quiet synchrony, and the kind of chill in the air that came from both temperature control and high stakes. But beneath that pristine order, the room buzzed with pressure. Not the loud, chaotic kind. The quiet kind. The kind that built slowly and wrapped around your ribs.

Marco Navarro stood near the central bay, arms folded tightly across his chest, posture stiff. He looked like a man trying very hard not to look tired. The sleeves of his button-down were rolled up just past his elbows, exposing forearms marked by the fine lines of someone who hadn’t left the building in days. His dark eyes were locked on the Iris 2 Probe as it hovered, cradled by a suspension rig, waiting to be sealed for launch logistics.

All around him, his team moved with quiet precision. Engineers in cleanroom suits adjusted clamps and rechecked fittings. Two techs hovered over a tablet, reviewing structural readings. A third was halfway through a final checklist on the containment shell. Every movement was practiced, deliberate. No one raised their voice. No one had to.

But the tension in the room was palpable.

Across the lab, three representatives from TIC—the Terran Interplanetary Commission—stood just beyond the boundary line in sealed protective suits, their presence as subtle as a shadow, but twice as heavy. No one spoke to them. They didn’t speak either. They just watched. Silently, intently. The government’s eyes on borrowed ground.

Marco didn’t acknowledge them directly. Not yet. He leaned in toward one of his senior engineers, muttering a question under his breath.

“Telemetry package confirmed?”

The engineer, a red-haired woman with tired eyes and half a protein bar tucked behind her monitor, nodded once. “Final sync cleared at 0637. No transmission lag. We’re clean.”

Marco gave a curt nod, but his eyes stayed on the probe.

Iris 2 wasn’t just a machine. Not anymore. It was memory and responsibility and proof of intent—of everything NOSA, JPL, and TIC had promised and failed to deliver the first time. This probe wasn’t just about reaching M6-117. It was about reaching her.

He could feel the weight of it—of the quiet desperation stitched into the calculations, of the late-night redesigns, of the emergency approvals rushed through by Parliament in the wake of the satellite feed leaks. Every bolt on that chassis felt like a plea.

Just hold together.

Just get there.

Just give us a chance to make this right.

He exhaled through his nose and finally let himself glance at the TIC observers. One of them—a younger woman, likely an analyst based on the blue badge—caught his gaze. She gave a small nod. Not approval. Not encouragement. Just acknowledgment. That subtle gesture that said, We’re all in the same trench now.

Marco returned the nod, just as restrained. No words exchanged, but the message passed cleanly between them.

They both knew what was riding on Iris 2.

This wasn't a test flight. It wasn’t a publicity mission. It was a lifeline.

Every update they’d received from NOSA over the past three days—Y/N’s position tracking, the sample uploads, the EVA logs—had shifted the gravity of the operation. Iris 2 wasn’t going to M6-117 just to drop instruments and wave a flag. It was going to confirm the unthinkable. That someone had survived. That someone was still fighting.

Marco turned back toward the rig. The final clamps had been set. The outer seal was being lowered into place with a slow mechanical hiss, locking the probe inside its carbon-frame shipping cradle. Once it left this room, it would be transferred to a high-altitude payload facility for thermal calibration. After that, it was Helion’s problem.

But right now, in this room, it was still his.

“Double-check the seal redundancies,” he said to no one in particular. “Don’t assume the checklist is enough. I want a visual on every damn latch.”

Someone murmured an acknowledgment and peeled off toward the capsule with a scanner.

Behind him, the lead TIC official stepped forward slightly, crossing the line for the first time. She was older than the others, with silver streaks in her hair and a face that looked carved from patience. She didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

Marco finally turned to her.

“We’ll have full system redundancy locked before the truck arrives,” he said. “We’ve tripled the diagnostics on this model.”

She nodded, arms at her sides. “Good. Because we don’t get another shot at this.”

He didn’t argue. They both knew it was true.

“You’ve seen the EVA logs?” he asked.

“All of them.”

“And?”

The woman hesitated—just for a beat. “I’ve seen a lot of missions,” she said. “A lot of accidents. A lot of breakdowns. But I’ve never seen anyone doing what she’s doing. Not after that long. Not with no support.”

Marco’s jaw tightened, but his voice was calm when he answered.

“She was always that kind of astronaut. Doesn’t do things halfway.”

The woman looked at him, gaze sharp. “Let’s hope the rest of us can keep up.”

Then she stepped back behind the line again, her presence receding without a sound.

Marco stayed where he was, hands on his hips, eyes back on the crate now that the final lock had engaged. The engineers were already moving to sign off the handover forms, but he lingered.

Because once this box was gone, once the probe left his care, everything became chance.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The video booth on the Starfire was barely bigger than a walk-in closet, but Armin Zimmermann didn’t mind. In zero-G, everything felt a little more spacious anyway. He floated cross-legged, tucked into the narrow padded frame like he’d been born for it, the soft blue glow of the console casting gentle light over his face.

The screen flickered, adjusted—and then settled. Kelly appeared, clear as ever.

Her hair was pulled back in a low, effortless bun, and she wore a navy wool sweater he recognized from their last trip to Bremen. Even over the feed, she looked sharp. Steady. So completely herself. She sat at her parents’ kitchen table—he recognized the striped ceramic sugar jar by her elbow—and behind her, soft daylight filtered in through a tall, arched window. Earthlight.

Home.

“I found it at the flea market,” she said, lifting something into view with a sly grin. “Original pressing.”

Armin squinted, then let out a short, delighted gasp.

“No!”

Kelly held it closer to the camera, and there it was—Abba’s Greatest Hits, 1973. The white cover with the floating heads, perfectly preserved, the plastic sleeve only slightly scuffed.

“You’re joking!” Armin’s voice leapt, thick with his Aguerra-tinged German accent. “Kelly—that’s impossible to get! People have been trying to fake that cover since the 1990s!”

“I triple-checked it,” she said, clearly proud. “Even the spine’s intact. The guy selling it said he bought it new in Malmö and barely played it. I think he was a bit heartbroken to let it go.”

Armin laughed, clapping his hands once in midair, the motion sending him spinning slightly in the seat harness. “Of course he was! If I had that, I wouldn’t let it leave my sight.”

Kelly smiled, and for a second, her posture relaxed. She looked at him like she had in the early years—before deployment cycles, before kids, before so many late nights spent on opposite sides of space.

“I got it for you,” she said simply. “I figured it’d help you hang on, for a few more months.”

He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-theatrical. “My heart,” he said dramatically. “You’ve stolen it again.”

“You never had a chance,” she replied, grinning.

Then a voice cut in from offscreen.

“Papa! Papa, look!”

A blur of motion darted behind Kelly’s chair. Max—age five and wild as ever—climbed up into her lap, shoving something toward the camera. A small toy spaceship made of interlocking blocks.

“I made this for you!” he shouted.

“Ohhh!” Armin’s face lit up. “Is that the Starfire? Wait—Max, did you get the airlock module right?”

“I did!” Max said proudly, twisting the top off to show him. “And this part detaches for landings!”

Kelly made a quiet oof as he squirmed in her lap. “Max, careful—you’re knocking the camera.”

“Sorry!”

Another voice called out from behind them—more composed.

“Felix, come say hi to Papa,” Kelly said over her shoulder.

A moment later, Felix stepped into view, his gangly arms wrapped around Marta’s middle with the kind of awkward, determined grip that came from practice and not quite enough upper body strength. He was seven now—taller, thinner, all knees and elbows. His hair was sticking up in the back like he’d just rolled off the couch.

“She’s getting heavy,” he announced, not complaining so much as stating a fact.

Marta let out a soft babble in response, followed immediately by a hiccup. Her round cheeks flushed with effort as she spotted the screen—and then her entire face lit up. She reached out toward Armin with both hands, fingers splayed, drool trailing from her chin to the sleeve of Felix’s shirt.

“Ach Gott,” Armin murmured, smiling so wide it wrinkled the corners of his eyes. “Look at her. She’s so big now.”

Kelly adjusted the angle slightly to center them all, then tilted the camera down to keep Marta in frame as Felix shifted her to his hip with a grunt. “She’s cutting teeth,” she said. “We’re up at least twice a night now. Last night she bit my finger and started laughing like a little villain.”

“I wish I could be there for it,” Armin said, the humor still in his voice but something heavier behind it now. “Even the screaming. I’d take the 3 a.m. crying and diaper explosions if it meant I could hold her.”

Kelly looked down at Marta, brushing a bit of hair from her forehead. “She misses you. They all do. But… I’m really glad you were here when she was born. I keep thinking about that. It mattered. Even if it was just one week, it mattered.”

Armin nodded, slowly. “Min didn’t have to approve the delay. I know that.”

“He did,” she said softly. “And I think it meant a lot. To all of us. Uma’s been struggling more than she says—Jimin missing Riker’s birth really hit her. I told her it would be okay. That it doesn’t change how much they love each other, how close he’ll be to that baby. I mean, you missed Felix’s birth.”

“And look at him,” Armin said, watching as Felix leaned against the kitchen doorframe now, absentmindedly rocking Marta as she gnawed on the edge of his hoodie string. “Still thinks I’m the coolest person alive.”

“He wrote an essay about you for school,” Kelly said, with a faint smile. “Said his papa works in space and is braver than a lion, but also better at cooking noodles.”

Armin laughed, chest tight. “Better than a lion at cooking noodles. High praise.”

“Max added that you once stopped an alien invasion. With a rock.”

“An Aguerra rock, no less. Very powerful stuff.”

“Apparently.”

A blur darted across the screen again. Max had returned, spaceship model still clutched in one hand, his curls bouncing with each step. “Papa! Did you see the antenna? Look, it turns—” He twisted it aggressively, and one piece popped off, bouncing out of frame.

“Oh no—wait—where’d it go?” he muttered, diving under the table.

Armin grinned, shaking his head. “Are you still fighting space pirates?”

“Every day!” Max’s voice called from under the table. “But they’re scared of me now.”

“Good,” Armin said. “Because they should be. With that ship, they don’t stand a chance.”

Kelly checked the screen corner. “We’ve got three minutes.”

Armin sat up straighter, trying to squeeze every second out of it. “How’s Earth?”

“Busy. Loud. But it’s good to see everyone. My mom’s still convinced Aguerra air has too little oxygen, despite never setting foot there.”

“I miss her house,” he said. “And her strudel.”

“She’s still mad that you like it more than mine.”

“She’s not wrong. Yours is… dense.”

Kelly gasped, mock-offended. “Rude.”

“I say it with love.”

“You’re lucky you’re in space.”

Marta began to fuss again, a tired cry cutting through the moment. Felix bounced her gently, but she was already twisting, trying to wriggle free.

“I’ll get her down,” he said, disappearing down the hallway.

Max had reappeared, one hand clutching a bent antenna triumphantly.

And then it was just the two of them again.

“You holding up?” Kelly asked, her voice quieter now.

Armin hesitated, but then nodded. “I’m okay. Mission’s a lot, but the team’s solid. Yoongi’s keeping the pressure focused. Mateo’s... well, he’s still Mateo. And Jimin’s trying to keep it together.”

Kelly’s expression shifted slightly. Concern.

“Any word on Fry?”

Armin’s smile faded, but it didn’t vanish. He was good at carrying the hard things lightly.

“No updates yet,” he said. “But she’s out there. Been fixing things, and managed to finish an old colony’s mission. Sick off of eating potatoes, perhaps. I know I would be and I get paste in a tube for breakfast.”

Kelly nodded slowly, eyes drifting toward the edge of the screen like she was picturing Y/N on that silent, brutal planet. “She’s always been stubborn.”

“She’s not stubborn,” Armin said. “She’s relentless. There’s a difference.”

The countdown blinked red now—less than a minute.

Kelly reached toward the screen, her fingers brushing the camera frame like she could close the distance through intention alone. “I’ll play the record for the kids when we’re home. Felix already sings Waterloo in the bath.”

Armin laughed, low and fond. “He’ll be a star.”

“Like his papa.”

He looked at her—really looked. The creases near her eyes, the calm strength in her voice, the soft exhaustion of someone doing too much but never complaining.

“I love you,” he said, quiet but clear.

Kelly smiled, eyes glistening, but she didn’t blink. “I love you more.”

The feed stuttered—just for a heartbeat—then steadied.

“Tell Max he’s getting an upgrade module,” Armin added, right as the screen blinked to black. “I’ll build it with him. When I’m back.”

And then the connection dropped.

Armin didn’t move.

He floated in the quiet for a moment, hands loose at his sides, the echo of laughter and baby babble still ringing in his ears. The hum of the ship crept back in—soft, familiar, indifferent.

He pressed one palm gently against the screen.

“I’ll get there,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll come home.”

Then he pushed off the booth wall, slow and weightless, and drifted back toward the corridor. Toward duty. Toward something unfinished.

A father. A husband. A chemist. Still tethered to three children, a kitchen on Earth, and a vinyl record waiting to be played.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The launch pad shimmered under the relentless Aguerra Prime sun, the air rippling above the scorched concrete like a mirage. From a distance, it looked almost peaceful—the tall form of the Iris 2 Probe standing poised against the deep blue sky, its titanium shell gleaming with clean, sharp edges. But the closer you got, the more you felt it: the pressure humming through every cable, every socketed bolt, every word passed between engineers like it might snap if spoken too loud.

The booster tower rose behind it like a steel spine, support arms still locked around the probe’s flanks. Sunlight glared off the reflective plating, flashing across visors and toolboxes as teams moved in tight formation around the base. They moved with the synchronicity of people who didn’t have time to second-guess themselves—every motion honed by thousands of hours of prep. Check. Recheck. Confirm. Sign off.

It wasn’t chaos. But it wasn’t calm either. It was the electric stillness before the sprint.

Off to the side of the pad, in the limited shade beneath a modular control tent, Taurus Flight Director Isla Reinhardt stood with her arms tucked behind her back, her body language composed but taut. The sharp lines of her white jumpsuit caught the sun, unwrinkled despite the heat. In front of her, Creed was gesturing—tight, controlled movements, but unmistakably frustrated.

“This entire sequence is backwards,” Creed said, low enough to keep it out of the general comms traffic, but not hiding the edge in his voice. “You’re running a TIC stack from twenty years ago. We’ve updated every protocol since Nexus One, and we haven’t done command layer locking that way since Apollo 27.”

The translator, standing just to the side of them, repeated the statement in clipped, neutral tones—softening the delivery but preserving the structure. Creed didn’t look at the translator. He didn’t need to. His eyes were locked on Isla, waiting.

Her jaw flexed once, just barely.

“We’re following a mandate from oversight,” she replied. “The redundancy needs to clear from the top line of remote interface down. You want to override that, you take it up with Parliament.”

“I’ve tried,” Creed said. “They sent me you.”

That earned him a sharp look, but she didn’t flinch.

A few meters behind them, André Batista leaned against one of the static barriers, arms folded, expression unreadable behind his reflective shades. He was a fixture here—part liaison, part architect, part political shield. He didn’t often speak unless something needed settling. So far, he hadn’t moved.

Beside him, Yoongi Min stood with one hand tucked into his flight jacket pocket, the other holding a data slate he wasn’t reading. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes tracked everything. The two men locked eyes for a moment.

André tilted his head slightly.

Yoongi gave the barest shrug. Not my circus.

The translator cleared her throat gently as Creed fired off another quiet barrage of concerns, this time about sensor lag and latency curve risk over a long-range transmission relay. Isla didn’t interrupt—she simply let him speak, waiting for the break. When it came, she replied in a tone so calm it almost felt detached.

“We’re under a transparency clause,” she said. “TIC’s name is on this. I don’t care how things were done at NOSA. If something goes wrong on this flight, it’s ours to explain, not yours. That’s the trade-off for funding.”

Creed’s nostrils flared. “This isn’t about funding. It’s about surviving the mission long enough to justify the launch.”

There was silence. Not long. Just long enough for the weight of it to land. The translator didn’t repeat that one.

André stepped forward finally, pushing off the barrier. “We need to stop playing jurisdictional chess. The probe is loaded. The window is locked. We’re hours out, and every one of you has skin in the game.” He looked between them, then directly at Isla. “Let’s not waste the time we’re running out of.”

He turned to Yoongi next. “Where are we on the confirmation pings?”

“Telemetry’s stable. We’ve got three handshake confirms from Iris and two from the booster package. Final burn path data’s syncing now.” He glanced at Creed. “She’s gonna fly, Summers.”

Creed didn’t argue. He just exhaled, rubbed the back of his neck once, and stepped away from the argument like someone carefully placing a grenade down before walking away.

Yoongi looked after him for a beat longer than necessary. Then he turned to Isla. “He’s not wrong about the sequence logic. But you’re not wrong about politics.”

“Funny how those things rarely line up,” she muttered.

In the background, the launch pad hissed as cooling vapor rolled down from the upper stacks. A ground tech called out a ten-minute marker in clipped Standard. The wind shifted slightly, bringing with it the tang of scorched ozone and oil.

They all turned toward the pad, eyes tracking the silhouette of the Iris 2.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Y/N stood crouched atop the curved hull of Speculor 2, bracing herself against the relentless wind. The gusts came in rhythmic pulses, sharp and slicing, carrying fine, metallic-red grit that embedded itself in every seam, every fold of her suit. It was the kind of wind that didn’t scream—but pressed. Pushed. Like the planet itself wanted her gone.

Her boots, magnetized to the surface, clicked softly as she adjusted her stance. Above her, the sky was the same hazy slate it had been for weeks—never quite light, never quite dark, the perpetual dusk of Hexundecia’s upper atmosphere. Out here, there was no sound but the filtered rasp of her breath inside the helmet and the occasional groan of the rover shifting in the wind.

She worked quickly, but carefully—gloved hands moving with practiced intent as she secured the last edge of the pop tent onto the roof. It didn’t look like much: an awkward dome of salvaged thermal mylar, structural flex-canvas, and about three rolls of industrial adhesive. The seams were patchy, the shape slightly asymmetrical, and the fabric still bore the faint burn marks from its previous life as an emergency airlock tarp.

But it was what she had. What she’d built.

She ran a final bead of sealant along the base, then tugged at the corners, checking for give. None. Good. The fabric trembled under her fingers, sensitive to even the subtlest shifts in pressure.

"Okay," she muttered, her voice low and clipped, more to herself than the recorder feed. "Let’s see if you can hold your breath.”

She flipped the switch on the manual pressurization system—an old NOSA rig she’d retooled for small-space inflation. It hummed, then clicked. A second later, the tent shuddered and began to rise, inflating with slow, uneven breaths. The canvas bulged awkwardly at first, then snapped into shape, the internal frame locking into place with a faint metallic pop.

Y/N held perfectly still, watching. Waiting. Her pulse ticked in her ears, louder than she liked.

The tent swelled outward slightly under pressure, flexed, then settled.

No tearing. No hissing. No collapse.

She exhaled, breath fogging briefly on the inside of her faceplate.

"Okay," she whispered, this time with something closer to relief. “Okay.”

She stepped back, letting the winds howl around her as she took in the strange structure she’d created. Ugly as hell. But airtight—for now. It would hold a pocket of warmth. Let her eat. Sleep. Think. Survive a little longer.

The pop tent wasn’t a permanent solution, and she knew it. It was a stopgap. One she’d have to check every few hours for signs of structural fatigue, thermal drift, or microtears. But compared to sleeping half-curled in the rover’s cargo hold, it was a goddamn luxury suite.

She climbed back down, boots thunking lightly as they disengaged from the magnetized hull, and dropped into the main chamber of the rover. Inside, it was dim and cramped—stale air, the scent of worn insulation, and the ever-present tang of iron dust.

She peeled off her gloves with slow care, flexing her fingers. They were stiff and pale, the skin rubbed raw in places where the liner seams never quite sat right. Her breath slowed. The adrenaline was ebbing now, the rush of getting something done giving way to the quieter dread of everything else still ahead.

This had taken four sols to rig.

She had, maybe, twelve more before the storm cycle shifted and buried the area in sand thick enough to compromise everything. And if her estimates were right—and she prayed they were—there was a chance, however slim, that a satellite would be sweeping near this quadrant by then.

She had to make the tent visible. Reflective. Irrationally bright.

She’d started sewing strips of spare mylar to the outer shell two nights ago, in the dark, with a thermal needle and frozen fingers. She had four more to add. Maybe five.

Outside, the wind surged again—louder this time. Something heavy thudded against the side of the rover. Probably a loose panel from the old dig site. She didn’t jump. She was past jumping.

Instead, she reached for her patch kit and a folded sheet of mylar she’d scavenged from the side panel of an old solar collector. Then she stood.

One seam at a time.

That’s how she lived now.

Not by the week. Not by the day. Not even by the hour.

Seam by seam. Breath by breath.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

At the NOSA headquarters, Mateo and his team of engineers were deep in the throes of their own technical challenges. They surrounded a mirrored setup of Y/N’s speculor, trying to replicate her conditions as closely as possible. The engineers were methodical in their work, carefully testing and retesting, but their efforts were proving difficult. One of the engineers scratched his head as he tried to fit the bulky Oxygenator into the cramped confines of the pop tent, muttering under his breath as he juggled the components.

“Maybe if we angle it this way…” Mateo began, but before he could finish his thought, the unit tipped over, causing a flurry of activity as the engineers scrambled to adjust the pieces. Mateo sighed, his patience wearing thin, but his tone remained steady. “Okay. Again.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Koah floated just above the rail of the comms bay, one hand anchored to a support bar, the other tapping a short sequence into the feed control. The connection took a few seconds longer than usual—just long enough to make his pulse tick a little faster.

Then the screen lit up, and there they were.

Quynh, all sharp cheekbones and soft eyes, with her long hair twisted into a lazy bun at the top of her head. She was sitting cross-legged on the couch in their apartment back on Aguerra Prime, barefoot, a wrench in one hand and their two-year-old son Bao sprawled sideways across her lap, talking a mile a minute.

“There he is!” Quynh grinned, tossing the wrench into a tray beside her. “Koah, your son is trying to dismantle the toaster because he thinks it’s a spaceship.”

“It is a spaceship,” Bao declared, his little face popping up toward the camera with unfiltered joy. “Papa! Look! Toaster engine!”

Koah laughed, the sound echoing softly in the confined booth. “That’s classified technology, buddy. You can’t just reverse-engineer domestic appliances for launch.”

Bao let out a squeal of delight, bouncing in Quynh’s lap.

“You’re supposed to say hi, not initiate tech theft,” Quynh muttered playfully, nudging him with her chin.

“Watch this,” Koah said with a grin, pushing off the far wall in one smooth motion.

He floated through the zero-G space like a swimmer in slow motion, tucking into a controlled spin. His body twisted mid-air, knees drawn in, one hand flaring out for style points. He rotated once, then shifted momentum and drifted cleanly into the partial-grav buffer near the edge of the booth, landing with a soft thud on the deck.

Bao shrieked with laughter, clutching his belly. “AGAIN!”

Koah beamed. “You’re lucky your dad’s a certified space ninja.”

“You’re lucky you married a woman who finds space ninjas hot,” Quynh said dryly.

Koah barked a laugh. “No lies detected.”

He dropped back into a crouch and leaned closer to the screen, chin propped on his hands as he took them both in—his son’s wild curls and jam-streaked shirt, the familiar line of Quynh’s collarbone just visible under a worn tank top she’d probably stolen from him in college.

“You look good,” he said softly, his smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Exhausted. But good.”

“So do you,” Quynh said. “Very heroic. Very floaty.”

“Bao,” Koah said in a mock-whisper, “how’s Mama holding up without Papa’s superior wrench skills?”

Bao squinted at him. “Mama says you make mess. Mama say she fix.”

Koah clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Traitor!”

Quynh smirked. “He’s observant.”

They all laughed—an easy, looping rhythm that Koah could’ve stayed inside forever.

Then Quynh tilted her head, the light from the screen catching in the curve of her cheekbone. The warmth in her face didn’t disappear, but it shifted—something sharpened beneath it.

“I’ve been asking around,” she said, her voice quieter now. “About her. About what’s happening. No one’s talking.”

Koah’s smile dimmed at the edges. Not gone, just more cautious now. “You mean Fry?”

She nodded, brushing a hand through Bao’s curls as he leaned heavily against her shoulder. “I know Creed Summers went behind Yoongi’s back. That much I pulled out of one of the payload guys during a lunch break. But past that?” She shrugged. “Even Ives won’t say anything. And you know she usually cracks if you wave a coffee pod in her direction.”

Koah let out a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck, like he was trying to knead the tension out of it. “Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated like top-level-clearance complicated?”

He hesitated, eyes flicking away for just a second. “Complicated like… you’d be obsessed with the engineering, and then terrified once you realized what it actually meant.”

Quynh’s expression didn’t change, but her posture shifted. She leaned forward a little, Bao still clinging to her like a sleepy barnacle.

“I don’t need you to break protocol,” she said, not accusing, just honest. “I know how it works. But I don’t want you sleepwalking into something you can’t walk out of.”

Koah looked at her, really looked, and felt that familiar pull in his chest—the one that reminded him exactly why he chose to stay. Why he said yes, when every other instinct told him no.

Even now, with everything spinning tighter by the day, she wasn’t asking him to come home. She was telling him to be smart. And that was love too.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” he said, voice steady. “I promise.”

Quynh’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “Good. Because I may be the only one in the support chat who thinks you staying up there is the coolest thing ever.”

Koah chuckled. “The other wives still mad?”

“They’re... coping. Uma’s pissed. Understandably. Kelly pretends she’s fine, but the boys are taking it harder. Max asked if he could build a space elevator to bring Armin home.”

Koah smiled at that, the kind of smile that knew exactly what being missed felt like. “And you?”

Quynh rolled her eyes. “I’m over here bragging to anyone who’ll listen that my husband is doing deep-space diagnostics with a toothbrush and a busted coolant valve. Like some kind of orbital MacGyver.”

“Technically,” Koah said with mock formality, “it was a toothbrush and a strip of thermal tape. I have standards.”

Bao perked up. “Papa is best!”

Koah grinned, eyes sparkling. “Damn right he is. And you, Bao Bean, are the best little sidekick in the galaxy.”

“Are you bringing robot?” Bao asked suddenly, sitting upright in his mother’s lap. “You promised robot!”

“I remember,” Koah said, nodding solemnly. “And not just one—two robots. One for you, and one for Mama.”

Quynh raised a brow. “Oh yeah? What does mine run on? Flattery and caffeine?”

“Logic circuits, emotional resilience, and a coffee reservoir with built-in sarcasm,” Koah replied. “Basically… you in droid form.”

She laughed, the sound bright and short and familiar. “Flawless design.”

The screen flashed—two-minute warning, pulsing red in the corner.

Koah’s chest tightened the way it always did near the end of a call. He hated this part. Not just the goodbye, but the slow slide into silence.

“I wish I could stay longer,” he said, quieter now.

Quynh reached toward the camera, her fingers brushing close to the lens. “We’re good,” she said. “We’re here. And we’re proud of you.”

His throat tightened, but he didn’t let it show. “Give Bao a kiss for me?”

Before she could answer, Bao leaned forward, pressing his entire face against the screen. “MUAH!”

Koah mimed catching it, then tucked it into his pocket. “Straight to the cryo logs. Archived forever.”

Another blink—sixty seconds.

“I love you,” Quynh said, voice steady, full of everything she didn’t have time to say.

“I love you more,” Koah answered. Then added, “When I get back—”

“You’ll finish fixing the toaster?” she cut in, smirking.

“I’ll launch the toaster,” he said. “With a fusion drive and retractable wings.”

Quynh laughed, even as the feed flickered one last time.

The screen went dark.

Koah stayed there, suspended in the weightless booth, his hands still hovering near the edge of the console like he could will her image back. Then, slowly, he let go, pushing off the wall with practiced ease.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Back at the launch site, the first rumble came low—almost imperceptible at first, like a distant storm building beneath the concrete.

Then the pad lit up.

A towering column of fire and sound erupted beneath the Argo as its engines roared to life, white-hot exhaust curling around the flame trenches in thick plumes of smoke. The shockwave hit a split second later—rolling through the observation stands, rattling steel fixtures, and thudding deep into every chest on the platform like a second heartbeat.

It was a controlled violence—raw, precise, beautiful.

The Argo began to rise.

Slowly at first, as if testing the air, then faster—cutting through the sky in a clean, perfect arc. The hull gleamed gold in the afternoon light, the sun catching along its flank as it punched upward past the clouds, trailing a pillar of heat and vapor that tore the sky in two.

A wave of cheers broke across the launch complex. Technicians and engineers who’d been stiff with focus a moment earlier now stood shouting, hugging, clapping each other on the back. Some laughed. Some just stared, mouths parted in disbelief, as if they couldn’t quite believe it was finally happening. Others wiped at their eyes with sleeves and tried to pretend it was the sunlight.

Yoongi Min stood just off-center from the crowd, shoulders square, arms crossed, but there was a softness to his expression that hadn’t been there minutes before—like a coil had finally loosened in his chest. Next to him, Creed Summers was grinning, not wide, but sharp—relief mixed with the residue of pressure. His tie was still half-loose from the argument earlier, but now he extended a hand to Yoongi.

Yoongi hesitated, then took it.

Not warmly. Not with forgiveness. But with acknowledgment.

“Well,” Creed said, low enough for only Yoongi to hear, “we didn’t blow up the planet. That’s a win.”

Yoongi didn’t smile. But he didn’t pull away either.

“Telemetry looks clean,” someone called from a nearby terminal. “Guidance holding steady. No drift on the main stack.”

Across the pad, André Batista stood a few paces back from the crowd, hands in his pockets, sunglasses reflecting the disappearing silhouette of the rocket. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The quiet, satisfied nod he gave said enough. He had seen a hundred launches in his lifetime. This one mattered.

Marco stood a few steps off the platform edge, jaw clenched but eyes tracking the ascent with laser focus. The Iris-2 probe was up there now—every circuit, every algorithm, every delicate sensor array tucked into the Argo’s belly like a secret whispered across the stars. It wasn’t just equipment to him. It was purpose.

As the rocket disappeared past the clouds, only the vapor trail remained—fading into the blue, curling in on itself like a final signature on a hard-fought page.

Yoongi finally exhaled and turned to face the rest of the team. His voice was steady when he spoke, but his words carried the weight of months.

“Mission clock starts now,” he said.

Creed nodded once, then turned toward the ops tent, already scanning his tablet.

The cheering had begun to taper off. Reality was returning in steps. There were check-ins to process. Booster separations to confirm. A thousand things that could still go wrong.

But in that brief window—between fire and silence—everyone stood a little taller.

Chapter 9: Sol 320

Inside the sealed cocoon of the Speculor, the rest of M6-117 faded to a low hum.

Y/N adjusted the volume dial on the rover’s console with a gloved hand, tuning the half-busted stereo with the care of someone who’d done this ritual a hundred times before. The speakers crackled, fought her for a second, then gave in. David Bowie’s “Starman” poured into the cabin—grainy, warbled around the edges, but intact. The first familiar notes stretched through the air like a warm thread pulling taut.

She leaned back in her seat and let the music fill the empty space around her. It wasn’t loud. Just enough to soften the edges.

Seven months.

That was how long it had been since the mission trajectory changed—since NOSA had quietly shifted from contingency to possibility, and finally, to planning. Seven months since she’d stopped thinking about dying here and started thinking—cautiously, carefully—about leaving.

Now it was close. The actual launch was days away, maybe less, and Y/N was almost too tired to process what that meant. She’d expected emotion, something big and cinematic, but mostly she just felt blank. Not numb. Just emptied out. Worn smooth by repetition.

In that time, she’d spoken with CAPCOM every day—lagged, distorted, half a minute behind real conversation. Still, it was something. The Starfire crew’s updates. Mateo’s cautious optimism. April’s careful questions, always logged, always transcribed. They’d become part of the routine. A strange kind of company.

Inside the Speculor, the air was dry and recycled, the temperature cranked just high enough to keep the frost at bay. Her gloved fingers twisted the volume knob on the console. Static at first, then the music settled into clarity: Starman, again. The same bootleg copy she’d looped more times than she could count. Bowie’s voice filled the cabin, staticky and familiar.

She let her head lean against the side panel for a moment, just listening. The song didn’t feel triumphant anymore—not like it had that first week after contact—but it still felt right. Like a rhythm she could breathe to. Something just hers.

Beyond the windshield, M6-117 spread out in all directions. A quiet, unforgiving ocean of red dust and fractured rock. Nothing moved except wind and memory. No birds, no trees, no clouds. Just light—too much of it—poured from twin suns that hovered low on the horizon like sullen watchmen. The shadows they cast were long and doubled, stretching at awkward angles.

The land looked ancient. Like it had been waiting a long time to be seen.

The Speculor groaned under her as it crawled up a slope she knew by heart. She’d rerouted this leg of the journey after last week’s storm took out the northern ridge. Her notes were accurate. They always were now. She didn’t have room for error.

The rover’s suspension—rigged together with leftover couplings and patched metal—complained as it dipped into a shallow trough. She adjusted the throttle gently. The vibrations traveled through the seat and into her spine.

“There’s a starman… waiting in the sky…”

She didn’t sing along. Her throat was cracked from the dry air, and her voice didn’t sound like her own anymore. But she tapped her fingers against the throttle in time with the chorus.

Some things became ritual. The song. The route. The moment right before she checked the nav screen, pretending she didn’t already know what it would say.

Battery: nominal. O2: green. Power margins: close, but acceptable.

Everything holding, for now.

The route she followed traced along the eastern lip of Sundermere Basin, skirting the high plateau where thermal anomalies had been pinging weak but persistent signals. She’d flagged it a week ago. Maybe residual power from a buried unit. Maybe nothing. But “maybe” was enough to justify the trip. Any task was better than sitting still, waiting for time to pass.

Because the truth was, after seven months, she’d gotten very good at surviving.

She’d fixed the antenna four times. Rebuilt the filtration unit twice. Repaired the rover’s lateral drive with nothing but a welding arc, spare bolts, and one of her own belt loops. She’d catalogued every sample she could reach. Updated the entire geological substrate map for the quadrant. Even completed two of Oslo’s abandoned mineral tests, down to the data formatting.

She’d done it all mostly to keep her mind from slipping.

Being alone hadn’t turned out to be the worst part. Not exactly. It was quieter than she’d feared, but not in the way people imagined. Not peaceful. There were no clean silences, no meditative stillness. It was crowded in its own way—crowded with memories, with thoughts that looped and snagged and repeated themselves until they lost shape. Some nights, lying on her bunk in the Hab, she’d listen to the wind battering against the canvas wall and pretend it wasn’t real. Pretend she was back in the deep quiet of space, where nothing moved unless you told it to.

She hadn’t cried in months. Not because she didn’t want to. Because crying felt indulgent, like something you did when there was room for it. And she didn’t have that luxury. There was always something to fix, something to check, something to prepare. Emotion was a liability. She couldn’t afford to dissolve—not when she had to be ready to get off this rock the moment the window opened.

And now, finally, they were close.

Close enough that NOSA had started using language she hadn’t heard in over a year—terms like maneuver window and vector drift allowance showing up again in the reports. The tone of the transmissions had shifted, too. Koah’s voice had taken on a subtle urgency. He sounded focused. And hopeful.

That part scared her more than anything.

The rover crested the rise with a long, slow groan. She tightened her grip on the controls, steadying the frame as dust curled up from the tires and blurred the windows. Beyond the glass, a new stretch of Martian terrain unfolded—deep ochre and rusted red, horizon layered with jagged ridgelines that looked like broken bones under the hard light of the twin suns. Shadows stretched in every direction, stark and sharp-edged.

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

In her mind, she’d pictured rescue countless times. She’d let herself imagine the roar of thrusters, a hull breaking through atmosphere like a second sunrise, the sound of someone—anyone—saying her name over comms. Something cinematic. Big. Emotional. Deserved.

Instead, it had come in pieces. Quiet, unremarkable pieces. Data packets. Checklist confirmations. Engineering logs buried in jargon. 

And now she was preparing to launch herself into orbit in a vessel that was never meant for a second use. A stripped-down ascent vehicle rebuilt out of scavenged parts and crossed fingers. One shot. That was it. The math didn’t leave room for mistakes. If she missed the intercept by even a second—or came in too hot, or caught the wrong wind shear—it was over. They wouldn’t be able to course correct. She’d drift, and Starfire would keep moving, and it would be no one’s fault.

She could hear that knowledge in the way Koah paused at the end of every transmission. In the way Mateo no longer filled the gaps with empty reassurances.

They knew.

But she also knew this: if it failed—if she didn’t make it—they’d still try to bring her home. She believed that. Her body, her suit, the black box of sensor data she’d logged with religious devotion. They wouldn’t leave her here to vanish under the sand. They’d find a way to retrieve her, even if it took years.

There was something oddly calming about that.

She reached for her water tube and took a long sip, swallowing slowly as her eyes drifted to the sky through the rover’s sloped windshield. The upper atmosphere shimmered faintly, copper-hued and blinding at the edges. Too bright to be beautiful. Too dry to feel real. There was something about it that always looked fake to her—like a badly rendered simulation of sky instead of the real thing.

Somewhere above that sky, Starfire was moving into position.

Somewhere, someone she hadn’t touched in over a year was punching burn times into a nav system and checking the margin for intercept.

She tapped the screen to bring up her next waypoint. A new line of coordinates blinked back at her, hovering like a challenge. This stretch would take her closer to the MAV site. She knew the route by now—every rock, every soft patch of sand that could tangle a wheel or throw her off-course. It wasn’t a road. It wasn’t even a path. Just something she’d made up as she went.

Outside, a dust devil spun briefly to life, danced across the basin, then collapsed into stillness.

She watched it for a long moment, then blinked and let her breath go slow.

“Almost over,” she said. Not a wish. Not a hope. Just a fact.

She adjusted the throttle, checked her oxygen levels, and logged the next coordinates.

And then she drove on, toward the place where everything would either begin again—or end clean.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Far above the scorched horizon of M6-117, past the reach of its sulfur-tinged winds and the shifting red haze that rolled endlessly across its broken terrain, the Iris-2 probe slipped free from its booster with a silence only space could provide.

There was no flare, no echo. Just the faint tremor of separation—a soft pulse through the clamps, a subtle release of inertia. One moment the booster held it; the next, it was drifting on its own, untethered, alive with purpose.

It had taken seven months to reach this moment. Seven months since Y/N’s first garbled transmission managed to claw its way out of the storm-battered surface and into NOSA’s deep-space relay. Seven months of restructured flight plans, emergency committee briefings, late-night simulations, and orbital trajectory scrubs. Seven months of wondering if they were already too late.

But now—now it was real.

Koah Nguyen leaned in over the Starfire’s flight deck interface, his back rigid, shoulders braced like a sprinter in the blocks. The booster telemetry had already zeroed. Now it was just Iris—free, exposed, and on approach. The margin for error was thin. Technically, the docking could’ve been automated. But Koah didn’t trust automation when the numbers were this tight, and when the payload was carrying a woman who hadn’t heard another voice in nearly a year.

His fingers hovered above the haptic interface. Every subtle shift of thruster power, every microdegree of drift correction—it was all on him now.

“Velocity differential .0025,” came Cruz’s voice through comms. “Approach vector within limit.”

“Still too fast,” Koah murmured, mostly to himself.

He nudged the left lateral thruster with a feather-light tap, correcting the probe’s arc. A flick of a button dampened yaw drift. The image feed from the hull camera refreshed, showing Iris-2 gliding in slow, steady increments—like a needle threading an invisible eye.

Behind him, Commander Jimin Park stood at a respectful distance, arms crossed, a silent sentinel. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. This was Koah’s op. But he was there, steady as gravity, watching the same numbers tick past. Ready, if needed.

Inside the airlock prep chamber, silence reigned. No chatter. No alarm bells. Just the deep, consistent hum of ship systems and the soft tap of Koah’s inputs.

“Switching to visual,” Koah said. He pulled the camera feed into full resolution, bringing Iris-2 into clearer focus.

The probe was sleek and small, more skeletal than anything designed for people. Its primary hull shimmered under the binary light of the two suns, panels catching the harsh white-blue glare in sharp angles. It was close now. Too close for hesitation.

Koah swallowed. “Clamp arms deployed.”

Onscreen, the Starfire’s docking arms extended like the limbs of some patient, mechanical insect—open, waiting.

“Approach… good,” Cruz said, breath tight. “Hold your line.”

Koah’s eyes flicked to the distance meter. Ten meters. Seven.

His voice dropped. “Five… three… steady…”

Then, softly: a clack. Followed by a second, heavier thunk as the magnetic locks triggered and the alignment ports sealed.

A tiny green light blinked alive on the deck screen. Docking complete.

For a beat, Koah didn’t move. He stared at the light, at the clean diagnostics flickering to confirm: pressure seals holding. Hull connection stable. No deviation in thermal equilibrium.

Then, finally, he exhaled—and leaned back, dragging a hand across his face.

“…Alright,” he said, voice low but calm. “We’re on.”

Jimin let out a quiet breath of relief, his lips twitching into the first real smile Koah had seen from him all day.

“That was smooth,” he said. “Stupid smooth.”

Koah allowed himself a small smile. “If it wasn’t, I’d never live it down. Not with Bao watching.”

Jimin chuckled. “No pressure.”

Koah didn’t respond right away. He was already leaning into his terminal, posture tight with focus as his eyes moved steadily across the rows of readouts. Internal diagnostics were holding—so far. Docking pressure looked clean. Hull temperatures stable. Battery output nominal.

The Iris-2 probe was more than a delivery system. It was a lifeline. It carried compressed rations—enough for a six-week extension if she rationed aggressively. Oxygen scrubber refills, thermal patch kits, reentry stabilizers for the MAV, a replacement navcore chip for the flight interface. Things no human should’ve had to live without this long.

And buried in the center supply bay, packed deliberately between a vacuum-sealed cluster of electrolyte gel tubes and a bag of freeze-dried vegetables labeled "PASTA—MAYBE" in Val’s handwriting, was something smaller. A note. Handwritten. Folded and secured with a strip of recycled polymer tape.

Koah hadn’t asked what it said.

He hadn’t wanted to know.

It wasn’t cowardice. Not exactly. More like self-preservation. Valencia Cruz had been the most unwavering presence in his life outside of this ship—and one of the most unpredictable. They’d worked together for four years now. Long missions. Endless briefings. Inside jokes and midnight coffee rants and more engineering arguments than he could count.

For most of that time, she’d been engaged to a man who’d never set foot in orbit. That ended months ago. Quietly. Without explanation. And he hadn’t asked. Not because he didn’t want to know. But because when it came to Val, timing was everything—and pushing was how you got shut out. When she was ready, she’d tell him.

And maybe—if they were lucky—he could open her letter in front of her and see what happened next.

“Telemetry check in ninety seconds,” Koah said, eyes flicking to the countdown icon in the corner of the screen. His voice was steady again, pulled back into rhythm.

Jimin was already there. He shifted slightly at his own station, fingers dancing across a field of translucent data. Orbital maps, storm models, launch windows—each one another layer of the puzzle.

“Sundermere’s heating up faster than expected,” he said, not looking away from the screen. “Atmospheric shear’s rising. We’ll be inside the corridor for twenty minutes. Maybe less.”

Koah gave a small nod. “She has to be ready to launch the second we clear.”

Jimin paused. Then said it like it didn’t need to be said. “She will be.”

Koah didn’t answer. Not with words. His gaze moved to the monitor again—one of the external cams feeding a constant image of the probe, now firmly docked beneath the Starfire’s main cargo cradle. It looked small compared to the bulk of the ship. Delicate. Temporary. But there was power in it. And purpose.

And inside, packed with quiet care, was everything that might keep one woman alive long enough to come home.

He tapped through the flight logic menus, making sure the data packets were queued correctly. Command chains, safety interrupts, hardware checks.

They were ready.

She would be ready.

The MAV on the surface had only ever been designed for one ascent. A precise launch, a short burn, and a controlled interception at low orbit. What they were asking it to do now—what Y/N was being asked to pull off with half a crew’s worth of gear, an aging suit, and the worst terrain in NOSA’s catalog—was borderline absurd.

And yet.

She hadn’t quit. Not once. Not in the footage. Not in the comm logs. Not in the whispered scraps of signal that crawled through the storms.

She was still there. Still building. Still thinking five steps ahead. Still surviving.

Koah leaned forward again, hands steady as he keyed in the final approach command.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Inside Airlock 3, the world was stripped down to essentials—light, metal, breath.

Hoseok floated just off the deck, his boots loosely hooked into the restraints, waist tether coiled at his side. The overhead lights cast a hard gleam across his visor, blurring his reflection into a ghost hovering behind the HUD readouts. His EVA suit was snug but familiar, worn in all the right places, and silent now but for the low hiss of life support in his ears.

Just ahead of him, suspended in the docking corridor, the Iris-2 probe waited—sleek, burnished, and utterly still. It hovered inches from the port like it belonged there, though everyone on the ship knew better. This part wasn’t automated. This part relied on human hands.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and slow, eyes narrowing on the alignment grid overlaying his screen. No error margin. No wobble. No alarm tones. A clean approach.

“Five degrees counterclockwise,” Cruz said in his ear. Her voice was flat and even, but Hoseok had worked with her long enough to hear the strain buried under the calm. Not fear—focus. Like she was holding her breath through her teeth.

“Copy,” he replied, reaching for the guide arm. His gloved fingers curled around the control joint with practiced ease.

The movement was subtle. Delicate. A feather’s weight of torque to rotate the probe just a hair to the left. The probe responded with elegant grace, drifting that final fraction into perfect alignment.

A small vent of nitrogen hissed from the attitude jets—barely audible, barely visible—but it was enough.

In the observation alcove just beyond the airlock, Cruz leaned forward against the glass. She didn’t speak. Her fingertips tapped out an unconscious rhythm against the edge of the display—counting maybe, or praying. Her eyes were locked on the seal point. Her other hand clenched tight around the metal railing in front of her, as though she could muscle the docking into place just by willing it.

They all knew what was riding on this. Iris-2 wasn’t just carrying spare parts and food pouches. It held the only atmospheric sweep array that could scan Sundermere before the stormfront made landfall. If it missed, if they lost sync, the window closed—and so did their shot at recovering Y/N.

Outside, the planet rolled beneath them. M6-117, red and raw, broken by tectonics and stripped bare by wind. The storm was visible from this altitude now—like a bruise spreading across the horizon.

Hoseok leaned into his final adjustment. His wrist flicked, just slightly. Then—

Click.

The probe settled into the collar. The magnetic latches extended from the Starfire’s hull, reached out like fingers, and grabbed hold.

A deeper thud followed—one that vibrated faintly through Hoseok’s suit.

Seal engaged.

Green lights blinked across his HUD in rapid sequence: docking clamps secured, pressure gradient stabilized, power sync initialized.

Still floating, still tethered, Hoseok stayed perfectly still and let the final status pass.

“All green,” he said, voice low. Measured. “We’re locked in.”

For a beat, there was nothing.

Then Val let out a breath like she’d been holding it for hours. Her hand slid from the railing, her shoulders dropping as tension drained out of her in one long wave.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “Nice work, Hobi.”

His mouth twitched in the closest thing to a smile the helmet cam could pick up. “You were a great audience.”

“I was trying not to pass out.”

“Appreciated.”

From down the corridor, someone whistled—a short, sharp note that turned into a wave of claps and shoulder pats from the nearby crew. No whooping. No shouting. Just the kind of shared relief that came from people too tired to celebrate but too proud not to show it.

Even Koah, the most seasoned engineer, let himself breathe.

Val wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. “We’re officially online. I’ll initiate payload unlock.”

“On your signal,” Hoseok said, already unfastening the tether and reaching for the interior bulkhead grips.

A voice crackled in over comms. Koah, dry and efficient, but with a faint lift at the edge of it.

“Good seal. Get the diagnostics rolling. We’re up against Sundermere’s last pass in six hours. That sweep data needs to be live before then.”

“Understood,” Val answered. “We’re already on it.”

The pressure in the room eased, just a fraction. The tension didn’t vanish—it never did—but it reshaped itself into forward momentum. They had the probe. They had time, if only barely. Now it was just a matter of moving fast enough to make it count.

Hoseok floated back from the hatch and turned his head just enough to see the curve of the planet out the small viewport behind him.

It didn’t look like a place anyone could survive.

But Y/N was still down there, somewhere in that rusted wasteland, defying every expectation.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The suns of M6-117 hung low in the bleached-orange sky, casting long, rust-colored shadows across the desert. The planet didn’t just look lifeless—it felt it. Wind tore across the endless dunes in soundless sheets, carrying with it a fine red dust that settled into every crack, every crevice. It was a world built from silence and scorched stone, unforgiving and unchanging.

But she had changed.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of what was once the main operations hub—now little more than a cracked shell stitched together with thermal blankets, sealant foam, and salvaged wiring. The walls creaked under the strain of too many pressure shifts. Sunlight leaked through patched seams, casting jagged lines of gold across the dust-caked floor. Inside, the air was dry, metallic, and heavy with the scent of old wiring and recycled oxygen.

She adjusted the angle of the camera, then sat back, letting it focus. Her face filled the frame: leaner than it used to be, the softness worn away by hunger, exposure, and time. Her eyes were sharp now—not hard exactly, but watchful. Alert in a way that came from sleeping with one ear open and always knowing how many hours of oxygen she had left. Her hair was wild, hanging in uneven waves to her collarbone, tangled in places where she’d given up trying to tame it.

The corners of her lips twitched up into a crooked smile. “So,” she said, her voice scratchy from days of silence but steady, “I’ve been thinking about space law. You ever hear of the Treaty of New Hope?”

She let the question hang for a moment. Outside, the wind howled against the Hab’s patched outer shell.

“It’s this old international agreement—was supposed to prevent exactly the kind of thing I’m about to do. Basically, no planet or government can lay claim to any celestial body beyond its own solar system unless they’ve got approval from a special council. Sounds bureaucratic as hell, right?” She reached over, picked up a wrench, then set it down with a quiet clink on the table beside her. “And yet, here we are.”

She gestured loosely around the space. “M6-117? Technically, it's unclaimed. That makes it... international waters. A lawless sandbox floating in the middle of nowhere.”

The camera feed jumped to an exterior shot. Her two speculors stood side by side, their once-pristine frames warped and beaten. Speculor One bore the scorched wreckage of Prometheus’s stabilizer fin bolted onto its chassis like some kind of makeshift figurehead. Speculor Two had been transformed into a mobile life-support depot—tubes, solar panels, and crates of salvaged supplies lashed down with webbing, its interior barely holding together.

It looked more like a junkyard on treads than a research vehicle. But it moved. And in a place like this, movement meant survival.

Y/N leaned in closer to the lens. “Technically, NOSA still owns the Hab. Aguerra Prime funds it, insures it, claims jurisdiction over it. But the moment I walk out that airlock?” She pointed over her shoulder. “I’m in the wild. No flag, no oversight. Just me, a couple of Frankensteined rovers, and a whole lot of empty red sand.”

She exhaled slowly, looking off-camera for a moment before glancing back. “And that brings me to today’s little project.”

Her expression shifted—something between excitement and resolve. “There’s a Helion Nexus lander at the edge of Sundermere Basin. It was part of a failed recon drop a few years back. Long story short: it’s still out there. Mostly intact. And I’m going to take it.”

She said it plainly.

“Not borrow it. Not radio in for authorization. I’m going to walk up to it, override the lockout codes, and take control. And technically... that makes me a pirate.”

There was a beat of silence after she said it. The word just hung there, lingering in the dry air of the Hab like a joke no one had laughed at yet.

Pirate.

It sounded ridiculous. Out of place. Like something out of an old holo-serial—leather jackets, glowing blades, dramatic standoffs on the hull of a freighter. She almost laughed at how far from that image she really was.

She exhaled through her nose and let the smallest smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “I always thought space pirates had flashy ships, called each other by code names, maybe carried sidearms they didn’t know how to use,” she muttered, her voice quiet, worn at the edges. “Turns out, all you really need is a wrench, a patched-up suit, and no one left to stop you.”

The Hab groaned as if in reply, the metal frame straining under the pressure difference outside. A gust of wind smacked the outer wall with a dull, thudding resonance. Something metal—a panel, maybe a loose strut—clattered loose in the corridor behind her. It struck the floor with a single, hollow bang and then went still.

She didn’t even blink. Not anymore.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” she said quietly, almost like she was testing the sound of it. “Space pirate.”

Her voice wasn’t proud, not really. There was no grandeur in it—just tired honesty. The title fit, in its own twisted way. No one had granted her authority. No one was watching. Whatever rules had once existed out here had dissolved the moment the resupply missions stopped.

She stared past the camera lens, her gaze drifting toward nothing in particular. Maybe out the small port window, maybe into memory. The expression on her face changed—just slightly. A softening around the mouth, a release of the tension in her brow. The guard she wore like armor seemed to ease, just for a moment.

It had been a long time since she’d let herself feel anything.

She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d smiled like this—really smiled. Maybe it was back when the comms were still up and she’d trade messages with Earth. Maybe it was before the storm fried the signal tower and left her to rebuild the antenna with parts scavenged from broken rovers. Or maybe it was even earlier—before she started counting the days not by dates, but by how many liters of filtered water she had left, how many oxygen canisters she had to seal by hand.

Back then, there had been routines. Schedules. Hope.

Now? Now there was just this strange quiet. And the freedom that came with having absolutely nothing left to lose.

She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh. “Honestly,” she said, more to herself than to the camera, “it’s better than a Nobel.”

It was a joke, sort of. She’d once dreamed of those things—awards, recognition, her name in journals and press conferences and history books. It had all felt so important. Necessary. Now, it seemed absurd. What was a prize compared to surviving six months alone on a planet no one was coming back to?

She leaned back slowly, her shoulders brushing against the cold metal of the Hab’s rear wall. Her eyes drifted around the space—at the tangled wires stuffed into ceiling panels, at the insulation duct-taped to the window seams, at the corner where the water recycler had leaked for three days before she managed to reroute the flow with plastic tubing and sheer guesswork.

The Hab looked like hell. Worn down. Held together by nothing more than willpower and the leftover scraps of a better plan. But somehow... it had become hers. A shelter. A prison. A home.

And as ridiculous as it was, she felt a twinge of sadness settle in her chest at the thought of leaving it behind.

Not enough to stop her, of course. She had somewhere to be. Something to take. But still—she hadn’t expected to feel anything when she finally walked away.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the soft whine of the fans, the hum of the power cells she’d rebuilt twice now. The Hab breathed like something alive. Flawed. Fragile. Just like her.

When she opened her eyes again, her voice was quieter. “Guess I’m gonna miss this place after all.”

Then she stood, grabbed her helmet, and reached for the hatch controls.

The airlock hissed.

And just like that, the pirate stepped into the desert.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The last day in the Hab didn’t feel like a goodbye. Not at first.

It felt... disjointed. Like she was moving through someone else’s memory. The edges of things were too sharp. The air too still. Everything was quiet in the way things are just before they disappear. Y/N moved slowly through the cramped living quarters, half-expecting someone else to emerge from behind one of the bulkheads. But of course, there was no one. There hadn’t been anyone in a long time.

She sat on the edge of her bunk, knees drawn up, one foot resting on the makeshift water crate she’d repurposed as a stool. The cold metal handle of her razor pressed against her palm as she tilted the blade, dragging it carefully along her calf. The skin prickled in protest. The act was mundane, almost absurd. Shaving. On her last day. On a dead planet. She hadn’t touched the razor in weeks. Months, maybe. There hadn’t been a point. But today, somehow, there was.

It wasn’t about vanity. There was no one here to notice if she was clean-shaven or covered in patchy stubble. She wasn’t doing it for an audience. She wasn’t doing it for NASA, or NOSA, or anyone watching from Aguerra Prime. She wasn’t even sure the cameras still worked. This was for her.

It was the movement, the familiarity. The echo of Earth routines. A way of reminding her body that she was still human. That she still existed in a way that wasn’t only about surviving.

The razor made soft, whispering strokes along her thigh, and she worked in silence, methodically. She checked her arms next, running her fingers over the fine hairs that had gone unnoticed for too long. The action was precise, mechanical. Muscle memory from a world that felt galaxies away. The kind of world with mirrors, and warm running water, and idle mornings where grooming was just a part of the day—not an act of defiance against desolation.

When she was done, she rinsed the razor in a shallow tin of recycled water and set it down with care on the tiny metal shelf beside the sink. Her fingers lingered on it for a moment longer than necessary, like it might vanish if she looked away.

She moved on.

The Hab was barely holding together, but she still walked its length like a steward. Every corner bore the marks of her time here—scorch marks from the battery incident, a tear in the flooring she’d sealed with epoxy and hope, the scratched notes she’d carved into the bulkhead with a screwdriver when the pen ink dried up. She paused at the stack of crates where she’d stored what remained of her research—dozens of boxes sealed in vacuum wrap, carefully labeled in her blocky handwriting.

Some labels were purely scientific. “Regolith Core B12.” “Atmospheric Trace: Western Quadrant.” Others bore the weight of her humor, dry and necessary. One in particular made her huff a quiet laugh through her nose: "Das Soil Samples."

She shook her head. God, that’s stupid. But it had kept her sane on nights when the storm screamed outside, and the Hab felt like it might fold in on itself. It had been just her and the sound of the wind, and her own voice narrating nonsense to the camera because silence had become unbearable.

Each box she packed felt like tucking away a piece of her life. Data. Debris. Documentation. It wasn’t just science—it was evidence she had been here. That this had all happened. That she hadn’t imagined it.

By the time the final crate clicked into place, a strange calm had settled in her chest. Not relief. Not even closure. Just... quiet acceptance.

She suited up with practiced efficiency. The MAV suit was stiff, but familiar. She knew the feel of every joint, every seal. As she clicked her gloves into place, she glanced around the Hab one last time. The lights flickered as she powered down the systems one by one. Air filtration. Oxygen cycling. Communications—already long dead. She hesitated at the heaters, watching the indicator lights blink out like stars snuffed from a night sky.

And then the lights dimmed for good. The whir of machinery faded into silence.

The Hab was still.

She stood in the airlock for a long while before cycling it open. The suit insulated her from the raw bite of the planet’s thin atmosphere, but she still felt the temperature drop. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the red, cracked terrain. The dust stirred under her boots as she stepped out. The wind was nothing more than a whisper here, but it carried weight—a dry breath from a planet that had been waiting four and a half billion years for someone to hear it.

She turned once, looking back at the Hab—its patched panels, its makeshift antenna straining upward.

“Thanks for keeping me alive,” she murmured, her voice muffled inside the helmet.

She made her way across the stretch of dust toward the speculors. Speculor 2 sat half-buried in windblown grit, holding the last of the rations and samples. She secured the final crate with practiced hands. Among the bland, utility labels, one box caught her eye: "Goodbye, M6." Just black marker on a storage lid, but it hit harder than it should have.

She lingered over it. Let it settle. Then climbed into Speculor 1 and powered up the system.

The familiar hum vibrated through her boots. The engine engaged with a low, steady growl, and the treads rolled forward, carving a new path through the empty landscape. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t have to.

The Hab was done. It had been her shelter, her cage, her sanctuary. But it wasn’t hers anymore. Now, it belonged to the silence again.

The terrain ahead was endless. Red and cracked and ancient. As the vehicle crawled across the dust, Y/N watched the ground roll past beneath her, and for the first time in months, she felt something like purpose return.

She stopped the speculor near a shallow rise and stepped out. Her boots pressed into the soil, leaving fresh imprints where no human had ever stood.

She looked down at her feet. “Step outside the speculor?” she said, the words dry in her throat. “First girl to be here.”

The hill was steep, but she climbed it anyway. The suit resisted her movements, each step a deliberate struggle, but it was worth it. At the summit, she paused and looked back.

Nothing. Just dust and sky.

“Climb that hill?” she whispered. “First girl to do that, too.”

The loneliness hit her harder up here, maybe because the view was so vast. It swallowed her. The wind blew gently against her helmet, like the planet was breathing around her. She rested one gloved hand against a jagged rock and stood still for a long while.

Above her, the smaller sun hung low—soft and bluish, casting a pale glow over the land. She’d named it “Bubble.” It reminded her of Earth somehow. Fragile. Distant. Constant. It was always there, tracking her through the days and nights like a silent guardian.

She stared at it for a while, letting the strange comfort of its light settle over her.

“I’m the first person to be alone on an entire planet,” she thought. The words felt like they belonged in a history book. But they were just hers.

No crowds. No cameras. Just the sound of her own breath, the press of the suit, and the impossible stretch of a world that had never known life.

She was the first. And she was alone.

The speculor’s solar panels were out, angled toward the faint sun, drinking in what little energy Hexundecia had to offer. The motors had gone quiet, the systems at rest, the caravan still and grounded for the next recharge cycle. Out here, time didn’t pass with the urgency of a ticking clock—it stretched and drifted, wide and open like the desert around her.

Y/N sat a few meters from the vehicle, suited up and leaned against a slab of fractured basalt that jutted from the earth like a half-buried monument. Her knees were drawn up loosely, arms resting on them, hands relaxed. The pressurized joints of her suit creaked softly when she moved, but for the most part, she didn’t. She simply sat there, head tilted back, eyes closed behind her visor.

The sounds were minimal. The low hiss of her rebreather. The occasional chirp from her suit’s diagnostics. Farther off, the gentle ticking of the speculor’s cooling systems. It was white noise to her now—background ambience that had faded into familiarity. What she focused on wasn’t sound at all, but presence.

The planet stretched in every direction, its reddish soil and dust-coated rock formations glowing faintly under the soft light of the smaller sun she’d dubbed Bubble. The sun’s blue-tinged glow bled across the ridgelines, casting long shadows that shifted almost imperceptibly as the hours passed. It was beautiful, in a way that didn't care whether anyone saw it or not.

She inhaled, slowly, deliberately. The oxygen from her suit system was clean, filtered, cool against her throat. It wasn’t fresh—nothing here was—but it was breathable. Reliable. She’d come to appreciate that more than she ever had back home. You learn not to take air for granted when it’s something you have to ration.

There were no thoughts of mission logs or data packets or next-stage objectives just now. No status checks. No timelines. Just her. Her, the suit, and the silent gravity of a world that had never known the touch of human life until her boots cracked the crust.

This planet wasn’t lifeless. Not really. It breathed in its own way—slowly, deeply. It had its own rhythms: the rise and fall of light, the cycle of wind carving its signature across stone, the whisper of ancient minerals shifting beneath the surface. It had been here long before she arrived. It would be here long after she was gone.

And yet, for this moment, it was hers.

She opened her eyes, and the horizon blurred in heat shimmer. There was a strange peace in knowing how small she really was. Not irrelevant—just tiny, and in the best possible way. There was no audience here. No live feed. No applause. Just the quiet realization that this... this was what exploration really looked like. Not flag-planting or dramatic speeches. Just being here. Alive. Observing. Bearing witness.

She let her helmet rest back against the rock behind her and murmured, more to the suit than herself, “Still beats the office.”

The sun shifted a fraction, casting a new shape across the dust. Y/N sat in silence, absorbing it all. This was the kind of stillness you only found when the nearest person was 40 million kilometers away.

The speculor rattled gently as it picked its way along the ragged rim of Marth Crater. Even with its stabilized suspension, every jagged rock and uneven slope sent a tremble through the metal frame. Inside, Y/N sat with her boots planted and hands on the console, watching the terrain roll by. The sun had dipped lower now, painting everything in muted tones of burnt sienna and faded rust.

The landscape was a frozen sea of iron-rich dunes, crumbling cliffs, and wind-shaped ridges. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like a wasteland. To her, it was a kind of poetry—brutal, ancient, and honest.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The lights in Mission Control were dimmed to reduce eye strain, but the room still hummed with quiet focus. A soft, bluish glow came from the wall of screens lining the front of the command floor, each of them tracking some fragment of a much bigger picture—system vitals, solar intake graphs, environmental stats, satellite relays. But the one April watched most closely was centered on a single blinking dot, creeping steadily across the digital topography of M6-117.

She leaned in closer, forearms resting on the edge of her console, her eyes narrowed behind the thin-framed glasses perched on her nose. The arc of telemetry traced the slow, deliberate curve of Y/N’s path around Marth Crater. One rover. One person. A single line of movement on a planet that had otherwise never known life.

It was a small signal on a massive canvas, but it was moving. That was enough.

April’s fingers moved across the touchscreen with practiced precision. She pulled up the diagnostics feed and ran a quick check—battery health, suit vitals, cabin pressure. No red flags. No anomalies. Everything looked clean.

So far.

Beside her, Mateo stood with a half-empty mug of coffee in one hand and the other shoved into the pocket of his jacket. He hadn't taken a sip in at least fifteen minutes. The drink had gone tepid a long time ago, but he kept holding it like he might remember to drink it eventually.

His eyes flicked toward April’s screen. “How’s she doing?”

“Still on schedule,” April said without looking away. “She shut down at eleven-hundred local, angled the solar arrays by about twenty-two degrees. Charging’s underway now.”

Mateo tilted his head. “Vitals?”

“She’s stable. Oxygen levels are good. Hydration’s down a little, but within threshold. Pulse is resting at seventy-nine.” She glanced at the biometric overlay, frowning slightly at the uptick in cortisol, then dismissed it. “No spikes. Nothing that says she’s in distress.”

He nodded slowly. “Holding it together.”

April finally leaned back, stretching her shoulders with a soft crack of tension, then gave a dry little smile. “She sent a message this morning. Said she wants us to start addressing her as Captain Blondebeard.”

Mateo blinked. “Wait—what?”

“She said since M6-117 isn’t under any planetary jurisdiction, it technically counts as international waters,” April said, arching an eyebrow. “She’s invoking salvage law. Claimed if she makes it to the Nexus site and gets the lander operational, it counts as a lawful prize.”

Mateo stared at her for a second, then huffed a short laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” she said, already pulling up the message thread. “‘Henceforth,’” she read aloud with mock seriousness, “‘I am to be recognized in all official comms as Captain Blondebeard of the Free Hexundecian Territory. Long live the Republic.’”

He gave a low whistle, the kind that said that’s insane, but I get it. “That woman has officially been out there too long.”

“She’s coping,” April said, quieter now. “Making jokes, building little myths around herself. It’s how she keeps her head straight. I’d be more worried if she wasn’t doing that.”

Mateo sipped his coffee and grimaced. “Cold,” he muttered, then gestured toward her screen. “Solar efficiency?”

“Still solid. Panels are at full capacity. We might see a dip after nightfall, but she has a reserve buffer if things slow down.” She flicked through the energy graph, tracking the intake curve. “She’s pacing herself. Four-hour drives, long recharge windows. It’s working.”

He nodded again, tapping his thumbnail against the side of the mug. “She’s about halfway to Nexus Five, right?”

“Just past the midpoint now,” April said. “Three clicks out from the rough terrain at the edge of the basin.”

Mateo leaned forward slightly, squinting at the updated satellite overlay. The crater’s rim was jagged, uneven—sections of it scattered with sharp ridges and loose shale deposits. The kind of terrain that could break an axle if you weren’t careful. “That’s going to be a tight run.”

“She knows,” April said, her voice steady. “She’s seen the topographic scans. She’ll take her time.”

Mateo exhaled, slow. “Still,” he said, more to himself than her, “she’s out there. Just... one person. Alone.”

“Alone,” April repeated, a bit softer now. The word felt heavy every time they said it.

They both watched the blinking signal for a moment. It moved at the slow, deliberate pace of someone with nowhere else to be—and all the time in the universe to get there.

“She’s going to be fine,” April said at last.

Mateo didn’t answer. Not because he disagreed, but because there wasn’t anything more to say.

They just stood there, side by side in the dim light of the command center, watching that little dot crawl its way across an alien world—quietly willing it forward.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Out on M6-117, the speculor crept forward, one cautious meter at a time.

Y/N sat at the helm, her gloved fingers hovering just above the control panel, ready to correct if the suspension caught on something unexpected. The terrain ahead was uneven—loose shale sloping downward into a shallow depression, just steep enough to be unnerving. Beyond it, a low ridge cut across the horizon like the edge of a broken plate, and she couldn’t see what waited on the other side.

She leaned in slightly, squinting through the viewport. The external cameras confirmed what her gut already told her: unstable ground. Could be a minor inconvenience, or it could be the kind of problem that ended her progress for good.

Still, she pressed on.

Not recklessly. Not out of impatience. Just... forward.

There was no deadline here. No finish line. No one waiting at the other end with banners or applause. But each meter gained was one more mark on a world no one had ever touched. The simple act of moving through it felt important. Not just survival. Something deeper.

She adjusted the throttle slightly and the speculor responded with a low hum, its wheels biting into the dust with steady determination.

Out the side viewport, the solar panels caught a glint of Bubble’s soft light—the smaller of the two suns that loomed over this planet like a pale sentinel. It was low in the sky now, casting long, diffuse shadows across the red dust, turning every ridge and rock into sculpture. She paused for a moment to watch it.

Always there. Bubble had become a strange kind of compass for her—a reference point in a world that offered few.

“This is your captain,” she murmured, mostly to herself, lips curling faintly into a crooked smile. “Course laid in. Planetfall... ongoing.”

Her voice crackled through the helmet’s mic, but no one responded. She didn’t expect them to.

She toggled the next waypoint, and the speculor rolled ahead with its usual quiet determination, the tracks crunching softly over dust and fractured rock.

Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was warm and dry, thanks to the internal regulators still holding steady. The hum of electronics was a constant backdrop—cooling fans, battery feedback, and the subtle rhythm of the environmental system circulating air. After months, the mechanical noises had become comforting, almost like breathing.

Her own breathing was slow and measured. The suit’s monitors recorded everything—oxygen levels, hydration, core temperature—but it was the old pilot instinct that kept her tuned in. Feel the road. Listen to the machine. Watch for patterns.

Outside, the wind had picked up. Dust skittered across the surface in short, chaotic gusts. The external sensors detected a minor pressure drop—nothing serious, just the planet reminding her that it was still indifferent to her presence.

Y/N kept one hand lightly resting on the control yoke, the other hovering near the manual override. She didn’t need to steer constantly; the speculor handled most of the navigation itself. But she preferred to stay alert, to feel connected to the movement of the machine beneath her. Autonomy was great. Awareness was better.

Her eyes tracked the outline of the cliffs ahead—Marth Crater rising in jagged, broken layers, throwing long shadows that danced across the red earth as the sun moved. The geology here fascinated her in a quiet, persistent way. There were ridges that looked like wave crests frozen mid-motion, deep gashes in the rock that hinted at ancient violence. Once, she might have stopped to take more samples, but today was about distance. Efficiency.

Still, it was beautiful in its own way—harsh, yes, but undeniably beautiful.

As the rover climbed a shallow slope, she allowed herself a brief mental detour. Not memories exactly, just echoes.

Mission Control. The soft rustle of bodies leaning over keyboards. The hum of ventilation systems. April’s voice on comms—precise, calm. Mateo muttering about stale coffee. People who couldn’t see her, but still cared. Still watched.

And then there was Captain Blondebeard—the half-joke she’d tossed into the void weeks ago, a silly placeholder to make the isolation feel less heavy. It had stuck, somehow. Maybe because they all needed it—something a little ridiculous to hold onto amid the silence.

She smiled at the thought, just briefly, and shook her head. “Captain Blondebeard,” she muttered. “Defender of dust. Ruler of red rocks.”

No audience. Just her and the rattling hum of the speculor.

She checked the diagnostics again. Solar intake: optimal. Battery: 92%. Environmental systems: nominal. No signs of mechanical stress. For now, everything was working.

That meant she could keep going.

The next waypoint lit up on the map—marked with a dull amber glow. Just over the ridge. She exhaled slowly, letting the air hiss softly through the suit’s filters, then leaned forward and tapped the throttle. The rover surged forward a little harder this time, climbing the incline with a low growl.

Dust kicked up behind her. The sky stretched pale and infinite above.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Mateo barely had time to sit before a heavy binder slammed onto his desk with enough force to rattle his coffee. The mug wobbled, then steadied. He glanced up with a sigh, already bracing himself.

Marco stood across from him, posture too casual, arms folded like he was trying not to smile. There was a spark in his eyes—half brilliance, half mania—the kind that made engineers dangerous in the best possible way.

“You’re not going to like this,” Marco said. No preamble. Just straight into it.

Mateo raised an eyebrow, flipping open the first page of the binder. “Why does that always seem to be your opening line?”

“Because I’m usually right.”

Mateo didn’t respond. He just scanned the schematic diagrams on the first few pages—wiring, load calculations, modular systems torn down to their bones. It looked like someone had disassembled the MAV with a crowbar and a grudge.

In the corner of the room, Creed stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Always the measured one. Where Marco was all spark and adrenaline, Creed was the one you sent in to keep the reactor from melting down.

“The problem,” Creed said, stepping forward, “is velocity. More specifically, intercept velocity.”

He tapped the tablet in his hand, bringing up a holographic projection of the M6-117 Ascent Vehicle—its sleek body now marked in red and yellow overlays. Next to it, a ghostly outline of the Starfire hung in orbital trajectory. The gap between them wasn’t just spatial. It was mathematical.

“The MAV is rated to hit 7.8 kilometers per second at peak ascent,” Creed explained. “The Starfire’s intercept window requires at least 9.2. And we can’t dip the Starfire lower. Not without burning half the return fuel and risking re-entry on a compromised arc.”

Mateo leaned back slowly, processing. “So… the MAV needs to go faster. But it can’t. Not as is.”

Marco stepped in again, voice animated now. “Exactly. So we make it lighter.”

Mateo looked up. “How much lighter?”

“Five thousand kilograms.”

There was a long silence.

Mateo let out a low breath, staring at the screen. “You’re serious.”

Marco nodded. “Dead serious. But don’t worry. We’ve already found two-thirds of it. The MAV was originally specced for six passengers. Y/N’s solo, so that’s an immediate thousand kilos—crew support systems, internal seating, storage compartments.”

“Fair enough,” Mateo said cautiously. “What else?”

“We’re pulling the scientific payload,” Marco added. “Soil, core samples, atmospheric sensors. All of it. It’s dead weight now.”

“That’s another... what? 500?”

“More like six-fifty. Then we strip internal comms—no need for multi-band systems. She won’t be piloting anyway.”

Mateo frowned. “What do you mean she won’t be piloting?”

Creed stepped in again, quiet and calm. “Nguyen’s going to fly the MAV from orbit.”

Mateo blinked. “You’re talking about a fully remote-controlled launch? With a human on board?”

“It’s been done in simulations,” Creed said. “The theory is solid. Remote guidance with live telemetry. As long as we maintain lock from Starfire, we can get her into intercept range. There’s a latency window, but it’s manageable.”

Marco waved that part off. “Honestly, it simplifies things. If she’s not flying, we can rip out the cockpit interface. Panels, redundant circuits, glass—gone. Another 400 kilos easy.”

Mateo’s jaw worked. “She’s going up in a vehicle with no controls, no backup comms, and no seats.”

“Correct,” Marco said brightly. “Also, no airlock.”

That stopped him.

“I’m sorry—what?”

Marco walked over to a scale model of the MAV sitting on the table, casually popping off the nose section like he was dismantling a toy. “The nose airlock’s nearly 400 kilos by itself. Hull Panel 19 adds another 200. And those windows?” He plucked one off the model. “Decorative. Total waste of mass.”

Mateo stared at the half-gutted model. “You’re launching her into space with a hole in the front of the ship?”

“Not a hole,” Marco said quickly. “A reinforced pressure barrier made from Hab-grade canvas. Layered, sealed, and structurally supported with internal cross-bracing.”

Mateo was silent for a long beat. “So... a tarp.”

Marco smiled. “A flight-tested environmental membrane.”

Creed, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “The structural integrity holds up at altitude. Once she clears the atmospheric drag—which on M6 is minimal—it’s all vacuum. The canvas doesn’t need to withstand pressure from the outside, just keep the inside pressurized.”

Mateo shook his head slowly. “And this is the plan you’re bringing me. After thirty years of aerospace development and risk management protocols, this is what we’ve come to.”

Marco shrugged. “You want to get her home or not?”

Mateo pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “You didn’t even get to the worst part yet, did you?”

Creed hesitated. “Well...”

“Oh, come on,” Mateo muttered.

Marco dropped back into a chair opposite him and spun the model slowly in his hands. “We’ll need to pre-load her EVA suit with everything she needs. She won’t be able to access the cabin once it launches. No movement. No cabin pressure.”

Mateo looked up, eyes narrowing. “So if something goes wrong—”

“She’s dead,” Marco said plainly. “But if we don’t do this at all? She’s also dead.”

The room went quiet again.

The logic was brutal. But clean.

Mateo stood in silence at the wide observation window overlooking the control bay. Rows of terminals blinked below, casting soft glows onto the operators’ faces. The quiet hum of the operations floor, the muted rustle of people moving through data, speaking in low tones—it all felt distant. His eyes tracked the orbital map, projected across the far wall. One small blue marker labeled Starfire. Another in orange: Y/L/N – MAV Prep.

Just two dots, drifting across the edge of a planet no one had ever intended to be a rescue site.

He didn’t speak. Not right away.

Behind him, Creed stood with arms folded, still, waiting. Marco was halfway through unscrewing the cap of a protein bar, but had forgotten about it, caught in the quiet tension that had settled over the room.

Then Mateo inhaled slowly and spoke without turning.

“Start building the launch profile. I want a complete risk breakdown—every failure mode, every backup system we’re cutting, and how long we think that tarp will hold under load. Flight surgeon and engineering get briefed at sixteen hundred. No exceptions.”

The wrapper crinkled, finally splitting under Marco’s thumb with a soft snap. The faint smell of synthetic peanut butter wafted out, but he barely noticed—already hunched over the console, typing fast, his mind three steps ahead.

“Copy that,” he mumbled, not looking up, already pulling up the MAV’s mass budget and internal schematics.

Creed stood off to the side, more deliberate. He pulled out his tablet, fingers tapping rhythmically as he opened a clean modeling slate and began sketching out the updated launch profile. No one needed to ask if he was running simulations—he always was.

Mateo stayed still.

He stood at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on the massive screen on the far wall—Earth to the left, M6-117 hanging silent and red to the right. Two markers moved in parallel arcs above it: Starfire, already in decaying orbit, and the blinking orange dot that marked the MAV’s last position. Y/L/N – Ready Hold. It hadn’t moved in six hours.

His reflection stared back at him in the dark glass, half-obscured by the flight data.

“And someone get her on comms,” he said finally, his voice level, clipped.

Marco glanced over his shoulder. “You want to tell her?”

Mateo turned slowly, just enough to meet his gaze. The expression on his face wasn’t one of authority or resolve. Not entirely. It was the look of someone who was doing the math—risk versus time, life versus chance—and coming up short on both columns.

“No,” he said. “I want to ask her if she’s willing to launch into orbit under a tarp and a prayer.”

Then he walked out.

The hall outside the planning bay was quiet, sterile, and dimly lit. A few staff moved briskly from station to station, heads down, focused. No one stopped him. He crossed the length of the control floor with long strides, ignoring the buzz of conversation and telemetry chatter around him.

NOSA Mission Control was housed in the heart of the Aguerra Prime complex—underground, shielded, secure. It was built like a vault, and today it felt like one. A place built to preserve life, now trying desperately to save just one.

He stepped into the comms wing and paused for a second in the threshold of April’s unit. She was already hunched forward, scanning her screen, lips pressed into a hard line. Her hair was pulled back into a quick knot, and the half-empty thermos beside her keyboard said she’d been at this since before dawn.

April glanced up as she felt him approach. “I already sent the initial uplink,” she said. “Low-band width, direct ping. She’s on reply hold.”

“She read it?”

A nod. “I think so. Just one line so far.”

Mateo exhaled. “I need you to be straight with her.”

April’s brow creased slightly. “She already knows we’re scraping the bottom of the playbook. You want me to sugarcoat it?”

“No,” Mateo said, stepping around to lean beside her console. “The opposite.”

She studied him. There was something in his face she hadn’t seen before—not panic. Not resolve either. Something heavier. A tiredness that came from trying to beat physics with ingenuity and spreadsheets.

“I want you to tell her exactly what we’re doing,” he continued. “The canvas patch. The missing control panels. That she’ll be sealed into a pressure suit with no way to pilot the MAV, no physical interface, no real fallback.”

April leaned back slowly. “That’s a hell of a sell.”

“I know.” He looked at the screen again. A message was still blinking in the inbound queue. “But I need her to say yes on her own. No pressure. No angle. She deserves that.”

April turned back toward the console, jaw set. “She’ll ask why we’re even considering this.”

“Because it’s the only window she has.” Mateo’s voice was quiet now, almost too soft to hear. “The Starfire won’t last another full orbit at that altitude. If we miss the next intercept burn, we’re not getting a second chance.”

April’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “So what happens if she says no?”

“Then we stop,” Mateo said. “We scrub the launch, pull Nguyen back into safe orbit, and pray the resupply launch next month doesn’t get delayed again.”

April didn’t move for a moment. Then she sighed, rolled her shoulders, and cracked her knuckles.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s ask the girl if she wants to fly a missile wrapped in tent canvas.”

Mateo let out the smallest laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be on the floor.”

He turned to go, but April caught him just before he crossed the door.

“Mateo,” she said, quietly. He paused.

“She trusts you,” she added. “You know that, right?”

He nodded once, without turning around. “That’s why I’m not the one asking.”

Back at her console, April read the message again.

Are you fucking kidding me?

There was no punctuation. No follow-up. No emoji. Nothing to signal tone. Just those five words.

She stared at them for a long moment, then leaned forward, her fingers moving carefully across the keys as she began to compose her response.

She typed, paused, deleted, retyped.

We know how insane it sounds. You don’t have to do this. There’s no protocol for this kind of ask. But if you say yes, we’ll make it work. And if you say no, we’ll find another way. No one’s giving up on you.

She hesitated again, then added:

But we need your answer soon.

April hit Send, then leaned back in her chair, rubbing a hand across her forehead. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting for a reply.

Y/N stood just outside the MAV, the wind tugging at the loose ends of her suit hood and streaks of red dust whispering past her boots. The Helion Nexus site was empty—eerily so. The dunes stretched out in every direction like a sea frozen mid-tide, the early evening light casting the terrain in muted copper tones. She stared straight into the lens of her camera, visor up, her eyes locked onto the feed as if the people on the other side could feel the weight of her stare.

She wasn’t smiling.

She hadn’t smiled much in days.

But her expression now—that flat, tight-lipped calm—wasn’t anger. It was disbelief. Controlled, deliberate disbelief.

“This,” she said, after a long pause, her voice dry and low, “is what we’ve come to.”

The wind rattled against the MAV’s lower hull behind her. One of the loose external thermal blankets snapped like a sail.

“I read the specs,” she continued, shifting her weight slightly, eyes still locked on the camera. “And for the record, yes, I understand the mission parameters. I understand the orbital window. I understand why this launch has to happen now or not at all. I get it.”

She took a breath, steadying herself, and then—just barely—she let a flicker of something wry creep into her voice.

“What I don’t get,” she said, “is how we went from 'cutting-edge escape system' to... ‘canvas and sheer fucking luck.’”

She shook her head slowly, almost laughing—but it didn’t come out that way. Not quite.

“They’re calling it the ‘lightweight launch revision.’” She looked off for a second, as if picturing the phrase on a government memo. “Translation? We’re stripping everything non-essential. Seats, insulation, pressure seals. Controls. Windows.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Because who needs windows when you’re flying into orbit at nine-point-two klicks per second?”

Another gust of wind swept through. The MAV loomed behind her—tall, white, sterile. Unwelcoming. It looked like a machine built for six. Not one.

She glanced at it, then turned back to the camera.

“So here’s the plan,” she said, more quietly now. “They’re going to fly this thing remotely from orbit. I’ll be inside. Not piloting. Not navigating. Just... sealed in a suit, strapped in tight, and praying Koah doesn’t sneeze while he’s on the joystick.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, but again, it wasn’t quite a smile. It was more like disbelief wrapping itself in the thinnest layer of humor to keep from cracking.

“There’s no cockpit. No redundancy. And the nose panel?” She paused. “Gone. We're replacing it with three layers of Hab canvas and a reinforced support frame. Which, to be clear, I stitched together yesterday with thermal glue and what used to be my sleeping bag.”

She stepped toward the camera now, voice still level, but her eyes sharper.

“I am, effectively, going to space in a sealed tin can with no front door. And the part they seem most excited about?” She leaned in slightly, as if sharing something private.

“I’ll be the fastest human being in recorded history.”

She let the words hang in the air for a moment. The absurdity of it settled around her like the Hexundecian dust clinging to her boots.

“I guess that’s supposed to be the upside,” she added. “A footnote for the textbooks. My name next to some velocity record no one will remember.”

She folded her arms, staring past the camera now, into the nothingness stretching beyond the ridge.

“But I didn’t come here for records,” she said. “And I sure as hell didn’t come here to die wrapped in duct tape and space-grade nylon.”

She paused, and then finally, something shifted in her expression. Not quite resolve. Something messier. Acceptance, maybe. Something that resembled courage, if courage wasn’t always so clean.

“But I did come here to finish what I started.”

She didn’t bother to say more. She didn’t sign off.

She just reached out and shut off the camera.

The MAV’s outer shell still looked intact—at least from a distance—but the closer she got, the more the damage and modifications became apparent. One panel had been pried off to make room for the external fuel purge; another was half-covered with what looked like insulation tape. The “canvas” they were so excited about was already prepped in a neatly folded stack near the nose—thin, reinforced, flexible, held together by thermal gluing agents she’d tested twice already, just to be sure it wouldn’t split during ascent.

She stood at the base of the ladder for a moment, helmet tucked under her arm, toolkit heavy in her other hand.

Up close, the MAV looked nothing like the sleek, composite-shelled ascent vehicles she had trained in back on Aguerra Prime. The ones in the simulations had been graceful—modular, insulated, and precisely engineered to cradle human beings through the brute violence of launch. They’d had padding and ergonomic seats, clean touchscreen interfaces, carbon-slick handholds designed for comfort under G-force compression. Everything had a place. Everything made sense.

This one didn’t. Not anymore.

This MAV had been stripped bare.

It stood squat and pale under the low red sun, a skeleton of what it had once been. The heat shielding was intact, but the skin panels rattled softly in the wind. Most of the insulation had been ripped out for mass reduction. There were exposed wiring bundles at the base of the hull, sealed hastily with patch tape and thermal epoxy. The side hatch was propped open with a metal brace that should’ve been part of the original ladder assembly, but even that had been cannibalized and reattached by hand, joints imperfect and scorched.

She stood at the base of it now, helmet off, toolkit in one hand, the other resting against the first rung of the ladder. The sunlight caught on her visor, throwing a dull amber reflection across the metal. She glanced up at the hatch. It looked like a mouth. Black inside, open. Waiting.

Y/N took a slow breath and climbed.

The rungs flexed slightly under her boots. The structure moaned—just a little—as she pulled herself up and stepped inside.

The air inside was still and heavy. Not from lack of oxygen—the filters were operational, barely—but from disuse. It smelled of cold metal and polymer outgassing. The kind of dry, stale odor that got into your nostrils and stuck there. It was like stepping into the bones of a machine that had forgotten it was ever meant to hold a person.

The interior was gutted.

No seats.

No panels.

No foam padding, no modular cabin walls, no interface displays.

The cockpit was nothing more than a narrow chamber of exposed beams and equipment housings now. Every surface that could be removed had been. The floor plating was gone. The wall paneling too. Even the soft sealant around the window apertures had been stripped away—there were no windows left to seal.

There was just metal, wiring, the occasional warning sticker half-peeled off, and the sound of her own breathing as she stepped deeper into the vehicle.

She crouched by the side wall and set the toolkit down. The foam inside was worn and cracked, and the latch had started to loosen weeks ago, but it still held. She unclipped the wrench—carbon-steel, standard hex-head—and got to work.

The first bolt came loose with a metallic groan. Then the next.

The remaining seats hadn’t been designed for easy removal. They were bolted directly into the structural base—six of them, each one reinforced to handle launch stress and vibration. It took her nearly an hour to pull the first one free. She had to brace herself against the bulkhead, digging in with the heels of her boots, twisting the tool with both hands until her wrists ached. When the last bolt finally came free, the seat tumbled awkwardly to the side. She grabbed it, shoved it toward the hatch, then crawled over to the edge and pushed.

It hit the ground outside with a muffled thud, sending a puff of dust into the air.

One seat down. Five to go.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at it. Just moved to the next one.

Every minute was precious now. The launch window was fixed. The Starfire would pass into final intercept in twenty-two hours. Koah’s orbital drift correction had already been executed. Once the line closed, it wouldn’t reopen for another 18 days—and there was no chance the MAV would survive that long in its current condition. Not with the limited onboard power. Not with what little she had left to eat. And not with the storm systems brewing again on the eastern ridge.

Another bolt. Another pop. Another seat came free.

She shoved it toward the hatch, muscles burning. It was heavier than it looked.

Outside, the wind had begun to pick up—more sand drifting across the horizon, loose pebbles bouncing softly against the MAV’s hull. Every few seconds, the gusts made the outer structure creak. It sounded like the ship was breathing. Or groaning.

Y/N pulled her suit collar down, wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of one wrist. It clung there—salt and dust and heat.

She turned back to the third chair.

The wrench slipped once, barking her knuckles on the raw edge of the bolt. She hissed, shook her hand out, and went back in.

No complaints. No curses. Just movement.

She didn’t bother checking the comms feed. There wouldn’t be any new messages from April for at least another hour. The distance, the relay lag, the signal decay—it all meant she was on her own now. No lifeline. No hand-holding. No updates.

Just her, and the wrench, and the cold echo of metal against metal.

By the time the last seat came free, her shoulders were burning, and the back of her neck throbbed with tension. She dropped the final chair out through the hatch and leaned back on her heels, staring at the empty space she’d cleared.

The MAV was down nearly four hundred kilos already, by her rough count. Another couple hundred from the stripped wiring. Maybe more, depending on what else she could cut before the systems started to protest.

She turned to the forward cockpit interface.

The main control assembly was still mounted to the wall where the pilot’s seat had been. The screen was dark. Inactive. Most of the data routing had already been disconnected from the ship’s mainframe—April and Koah had walked her through the shutoff protocol the night before.

Still, it looked wrong, somehow. Like it still thought it was meant to be used.

She studied it for a second. Then reached forward and began to dismantle it.

One panel at a time.

She took no pleasure in it. There was no thrill, no rush of rebellion or recklessness. Just the cold understanding that it had to go. Every ounce she stripped now was one less kilo for the rockets to lift.

The screen popped free after two minutes. The control column took another five. She snipped the cabling with wire cutters, bundled it into a rough coil, and set it aside. It would make a decent handhold if she needed one during launch.

The MAV was quieter now.

Hollow.

The wind outside had picked up into a steady moan, the dust slapping against the outer skin in brief, muted bursts. Occasionally, she heard something shift on the landing struts—some subtle tension in the way the wind pressed against the upright body of the vehicle.

Y/N sat back, leaning against one of the inner support beams. Her shoulders were soaked through. The EVA undersuit clung to her, the cooling pads barely keeping up with the heat she was generating. Her breath echoed in the silence.

She let herself rest there for a moment. Not sleep. Just stillness. Just one minute of stillness.

She looked up at the interior of the MAV. It didn’t look like a spacecraft anymore.

It looked like an escape pod built in a garage.

She reached for her comm tablet. The screen lit up, the signal flickering once before stabilizing.

No new messages.

She flipped open the reply channel anyway and typed with slow, deliberate fingers.

Interior’s stripped. Control interface removed. All six seats gone. Pressure barrier is still holding. Will install final harness next. Wind’s picking up. If this thing doesn’t fall apart, I’ll be ready to light it when the crew is. Tell Koah I hope he remembers how to fly blind. Because this ship’s not going to hold my hand.

She hit send, then turned off the display.

By the time she stepped outside again, the light had shifted. The sun—low and pale-blue on this side of the planet—was dragging the long shadows of the MAV across the dust. It cast the stripped-down vehicle in stark relief: every exposed rib, every bolt she hadn’t had time to replace, every scar left from the dismantling process. The ground was littered with the remnants—seat brackets, cracked insulation, lengths of coiled cable, and one final wrench she hadn’t bothered to bring back inside.

Her arms ached. Her back felt like it had been through a hydraulic press. There was a raw spot under her left elbow where the EVA suit padding had bunched up during one of the anchor installs, and her hands were trembling with the aftershock of muscle fatigue, the kind that didn’t fully hit you until the job was done. Her visor was streaked with fine red grit, the kind that clung to everything, the kind you’d still find in your boots six months after you’d left the planet.

The MAV loomed behind her—unfinished, exposed. It looked less like a spacecraft now and more like something welded together out of salvage parts in the middle of a desert. The kind of machine desperate people might have built after the end of the world. Everything extraneous had been pulled: life-support subsystems, insulation, windows, comm redundancies. Even the pilot’s control column had been replaced with a blank wall and a data plug tied directly into its core systems.

There was no illusion left. No polish. No design elegance. It wasn’t a vehicle anymore. It was a shell. A slingshot with just enough thrust to throw her back into orbit—if the math held.

Y/N stood in the silence and stared up at it.

And for a long time, she didn’t move.

Wind brushed past her legs, carrying dust across the flat expanse of the launch site. The air was so thin it barely had weight, but it was just enough to make the suit’s outer fabric shift against her skin. She flexed her fingers once, twice, trying to ease the burn in her knuckles. She felt tired all the way through. Not sleepy—just... used up.

She reached down into her toolkit, fumbled past a spare patch kit, a pair of stripped fasteners, until her fingers closed around the compact speaker unit. She hesitated, just for a second, then pulled it free.

She rubbed a tired thumb across the surface of the speaker, clearing a streak of dust from the side panel. The LED took a second to respond, then blinked on—soft and green, like it was waking from a long nap. The speaker had been through a lot. It had fallen off shelves during storms, been buried under equipment, and once—briefly—served as a weight to keep down an emergency tarp in a wind event. It wasn’t meant to last this long, but like everything else out here, it had adapted.

No ceremony. No speech. No last rites.

Just habit.

She tapped through the tracklist, muscle memory guiding her. Most of the audio files were practical: suit diagnostics, training walkthroughs, comms recordings she’d archived months ago. But tucked near the bottom of the directory was a small folder labeled simply Misc—leftovers from a data transfer, probably. A few compressed files, an outdated playlist from her tablet. Nothing she’d listened to in weeks.

She hovered over one of them.

It was a dumb choice. Something absurdly out of step with the dry, red world around her. Upbeat to the point of satire. But that was kind of the point. When you were about to launch yourself into orbit in a ship held together by glue, canvas, and a few good intentions, irony wasn’t just a luxury—it was armor.

She tapped Play.

The speaker chirped once, then crackled. And then came the unmistakable first notes of Waterloo. 

The music was grainy, a little warped at the high end, like it was playing from inside a tin can—which, technically, it was. But it was there. Real. Loud enough to carry.

Y/N let out a small, involuntary snort. Not quite a laugh—she was too wrung out for that—but something close. A dry, exhausted sound that cracked in her throat before it fully formed.

“Of course,” she muttered, barely audible over the hiss of her suit. “Why the hell not.”

She turned her face to the sound, let it roll over her like a warm breeze. The melody skipped slightly as the speaker rebuffered, then found its footing again. It echoed out over the flats, skipping across dunes and bouncing faintly against the far wall of the crater.

It sounded completely ridiculous.

She could only imagine what it might look like from above—the MAV standing like some stripped-down monument to desperation, half-disassembled, with ABBA blaring into the Martian dusk. But she didn’t care. No one was watching. No one was here.

Except the camera.

The old Hab cam had been hauled out from storage that morning and mounted onto the tripod she’d built from three scavenged rover legs. It had taken three tries to get it to stand upright in the wind. The joints were loose and she hadn’t been able to stabilize the footing without wedging a rock beneath it. The lens was scratched at the corners, fogged with grit. But the recording light was on. That was enough.

She turned to face it.

Her visor was up, streaked with a smear of red dust she hadn’t bothered to clean. Her face was drawn, jaw tight, sweat-matted hair sticking out from under the edge of her helmet ring. There was a tiredness in her eyes that couldn’t be faked. The kind that didn’t come from a single long day—but from all of them.

And still—after everything—she found something like a smile.

Not much. Just a flicker. A small, human thing that tugged briefly at the edge of her mouth and vanished again.

She looked into the lens and said, quietly, “If this is how it ends... I’m at least going out with a beat.”

She didn’t stay to dramatize the moment. There was nothing left to say. No pithy sendoff. No final look back. She adjusted the straps on her suit, flexed her sore fingers once, and turned toward the MAV.

The music kept playing behind her as she walked. Her boots crunched over loose grit, and the wind swept her footprints away almost as quickly as she made them. The speaker fought to keep up, the chorus jumping slightly with every gust, but it held. Just barely.

She reached the base of the ladder and stopped, one hand resting on the rung.

The MAV loomed above her like a relic. The tarp covering the nose cone flapped gently in the breeze, held in place by thermal glue, epoxy seals, and a prayer. The hull creaked faintly as the wind pushed against it. She’d sealed the hatch an hour ago and double-checked the pressure rings, but she still felt that pinch of doubt in the back of her throat. The kind that whispered what if it doesn’t hold?

She didn’t answer it.

Instead, she climbed.

Her arms protested the movement, joints tight and sore, but she moved deliberately. One step. Then another. By the time she reached the top, the sun had slipped closer to the horizon, the shadows stretching long behind her like threads pulled from the sky.

She placed her hand on the outer hatch and paused. Not to deliver a final line. Not to think of Earth. Just to breathe.

The MAV groaned softly under her weight.

The tarp held.

She ducked inside.

The music continued for a few more seconds outside—one final chorus warbling faintly through the thin Hexundecian air—before the speaker choked on a memory buffer and went silent.

She heard the cut from inside the MAV. A sudden, brittle silence where the absurdity had been.

She blinked. Then, after a long pause, she let out a sound halfway between a breath and a laugh.

“Figures,” she said, voice echoing faintly in the hollow chamber. “Survived a year out here. Dies right when I need it.”

She eased herself down into the harness. Felt the straps bite into her suit. Tensed her shoulders, then relaxed them.

Outside, the wind kept blowing. Inside, the MAV was quiet. And for the first time in a long while, everything was still.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Koah’s jaw was clenched tight, his shoulders stiff, his fingers working furiously over the simulated flight controls. A soft sheen of sweat glistened along his temple, and the soft hum of the Starfire’s artificial gravity system did nothing to mask the rising sound of his own pulse in his ears.

Then—red.

COLLISION WITH TERRAIN.

The alert flashed across the screen with an abrupt, terminal finality. The simulator screen froze, the MAV’s virtual ascent freezing mid-frame as the telemetry dipped off its plotted trajectory and straight into the surface of M6-117.

Koah swore under his breath, leaning back and scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Val, standing behind him with arms crossed and a silent kind of patience, finally spoke.

“Well. That’s one way to kill her.”

Koah didn’t turn around. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Val cocked an eyebrow. “You grazed the ridge by sixty meters and still lost control.”

“I misjudged the crosswind,” Koah muttered, already rebooting the program. “There’s a lateral shear the moment she clears the crater’s upper edge. I didn’t compensate fast enough.”

“You didn’t compensate at all.”

Koah didn’t argue. He just started again.

Across the room, Jimin was watching quietly. Always watching. His arms were folded, a tablet resting against his hip. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched the new simulation load in—silent desert terrain unfolding on the screen, the crude profile of the MAV climbing into view.

Then, calmly: “Run it again.”

Koah gave a tight nod, jaw grinding. “Already on it.”

No one said it aloud, but they all knew: he wasn’t just practicing for a sim anymore. The next time he guided the MAV, it wouldn’t be theoretical. Y/N would be inside. And if he screwed it up—if he overcorrected or waited a half-second too long—he wouldn’t be watching a failure animation.

He’d be watching her die.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Far below the slow arc of Starfire’s orbit, deep in the wind-scoured silence of M6-117, Y/N wasn’t thinking about flight paths or burn trajectories. She wasn’t thinking about orbital windows or the terrifying precision of a rendezvous 200 kilometers above her head.

She was thinking about the last bolt.

The MAV no longer resembled a spacecraft—at least not in the traditional sense. Its body had been stripped to the skeleton, gutted of everything not absolutely essential to flight. The clean panels, the instrument clusters, the ergonomic chairs—all gone. Dismantled. Ejected. Abandoned in neat or not-so-neat piles outside the hatch. The floor was bare save for hardpoints and wiring channels, some of which she’d rerouted by hand. Others she’d torn out completely, judging them expendable.

Anything that didn’t help her leave this planet was dead weight. And dead weight didn’t fly.

Inside the airlock, the carnage was undeniable: bundles of severed cables coiled like veins, seat frames stacked like broken bones, polycarbonate display shells cracked and tossed against the far wall. Her makeshift bin overflowed, and the overflow had started to scatter—bits and pieces rolling down the slope toward the edge of the launch pad in lazy arcs. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like the wreckage of a crash. But it wasn’t. It was controlled destruction.

Intentional.

Necessary.

Y/N leaned back against the inner hatch rim, trying to catch her breath. She’d been working for hours without pause, and her body was registering its protest in every possible language: throbbing shoulders, forearms trembling from tension, joints stiff with grit and fatigue. The wrench in her hand felt heavier than it had any right to. Her grip had started to falter an hour ago. She kept working anyway.

Her gloves were caked in rust-red dust, fraying at the fingers. Her right thumb was raw—no skin left on the pad, the fabric beneath damp and tacky. Every time she flexed the joint, it stung like fire, but she didn’t have time to think about that now.

She looked down at what was left: the forward access collar—what had once housed the MAV’s primary nose airlock. The interface was compromised. She’d known that for days, ever since she first checked the weld seams and found stress fractures spidering out from the lower ring. The airlock itself had always been heavy, armored to resist high-speed debris during ascent. But now it was just another liability—too much mass, too many structural risks. And completely useless.

It had to go.

She dropped to one knee with a hiss of effort. The joint in her suit pinched, and her back seized as she twisted awkwardly to brace herself. The fasteners weren’t difficult, not anymore. Four had already been loosened days ago during prep. Only two remained, and the metal was corroded enough to complain with every turn.

She grit her teeth and leaned into it.

The first bolt groaned, spun twice, then popped loose with a sudden give that nearly threw her off balance. She planted a hand against the inner bulkhead to steady herself, breathing hard through her nose.

The second bolt was more stubborn. It refused to move at first, stuck tight by a decade of cold and pressure and the fine silicate dust that wormed its way into everything on this planet. She repositioned the wrench, dug her boots into the deck, and hauled.

One turn. Two.

Then—snap.

The final bolt sheared away. The access collar sagged, shifted, and with a dull metallic pop, it tore loose from the surrounding frame. For a heartbeat, it hovered there—still clinging to its old shape, its old function.

Then it dropped.

The mass of it caught a gust of wind as it fell. The panel spun as it tumbled, crashing to the ground with a heavy, final thunk that reverberated across the dry surface. The noise wasn’t loud, not really. But in a world so quiet, so still, it felt seismic.

Y/N stepped back automatically, too fast, and her knees buckled.

Her legs simply gave out.

She hit the ground sideways, dust puffing up in a loose swirl around her, the wrench slipping from her hand and bouncing once before it landed beside her in the dirt.

She lay there, unmoving for a long moment, face turned to the sky.

Her pulse was in her ears. Her arms refused to lift.

Everything ached.

She could feel the crust of sweat drying beneath her undersuit, her body swaddled in fatigue and grime and the kind of exhaustion that made the idea of standing again feel almost hypothetical.

She didn’t bother trying to sit up.

Instead, she tilted her head back just enough to see the MAV above her, its patched-together body silhouetted against the dimming sky. The canvas at the nose—once her sleeping tarp, now layered and bonded with thermal glue—fluttered slightly at the edges. It held.

Somehow, it held.

The whole thing looked absurd. Makeshift. Unbelievably fragile.

But it was all she had.

She let out a sound. It wasn’t quite a laugh—too hollow, too dry—but it came from somewhere near the part of her that used to have the energy for humor.

Her gaze drifted sideways, to where the old speaker still sat on the ground a few meters away, half-buried in dust. It had been playing earlier—something upbeat and ridiculous, a holdover from her playlist of songs she’d used to fill the Hab with noise when the silence became too loud.

She hoped Waterloo had been the last thing it played. That felt appropriate somehow. Too bad.

She closed her eyes, her breath coming in slow, shallow pulls.

“Finally facing my Waterloo,” she murmured.

Her voice didn’t carry far. The helmet mic was off. The camera wasn’t rolling. There was no audience this time. No log entry. No flight team monitoring her vitals.

It was just her.

Just the dust, and the ship she’d rebuilt by hand, and the infinite silence of an alien world that didn’t care whether she lived or died.

The wrench lay beside her, forgotten.

And for a while, Y/N didn’t move at all.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Onboard Starfire, the mood had shifted.

Gone was the casual rhythm of deep space routine. No idle chatter, no coffee mugs clinking against console rails, no playlist humming through the speakers. The rec deck had been empty for hours. Everyone had drifted toward the core of the ship—the main operations bay—drawn there by necessity, by duty, by the quiet pull of something heavier than protocol.

The gravity was steady, calibrated to Earth-norm, but it still felt like the floor had tilted slightly. Like something was waiting.

Overhead, the orbital burn countdown ticked down in cold blue digits.

Jimin stood at the forward console, his hands braced against the reinforced edge, leaning slightly as if anchoring himself. The navigation display glowed in front of him, lines arcing across the interface: the MAV’s projected trajectory, the intercept corridor, and Starfire’s adjusted orbital path. Three bodies, four variables, one window.

The final window.

Behind him, the others moved in quiet coordination.

Cruz was already seated at Systems Two, hunched over a terminal, rerouting power protocols through the MAV telemetry relay. Her fingers moved fast, practiced. Efficient. There was no margin left for error. Anything they didn’t handle before launch would have to be handled mid-flight—and there were too many unknowns between now and then to trust in mid-flight.

“Nguyen’s got full remote,” Jimin said, his tone even but clipped, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Cruz, you’ll manage override routing from Bay Two. Keep a hard link to the MAV all the way through primary burn.”

“Copy,” Val replied, not looking up. “I’m tying in emergency telemetry now. One-minute intervals on the backup ping. It’ll lag by three seconds on the fallback line.”

“We’ll take it,” Jimin said.

He turned, scanning the rest of the crew.

“Hoseok. Armin. Airlock Two. You’ll be suiting up once we hit the two-minute mark before MAV ignition. Tether lines stay deployed. Outer door stays open.”

Armin nodded once, already halfway through checklist sync. “Lines are staged and calibrated. Anchor’s clipped. The MMU packs are charged.”

“Good.”

Hoseok leaned forward, his tablet on his lap, ascent data scrolling in a slow, inevitable stream. His brow furrowed as he traced the curve of the launch.

“She’s going to hit twelve Gs during the climb,” he said, voice low. “She’ll black out somewhere between eleven and twelve if the suit’s not aligned perfectly. Even if she doesn’t lose consciousness, she’s going to be borderline hypoxic by engine cutoff. Muscle tremors, potential cerebral edema, disorientation.”

He paused. No one filled the silence.

“She might not be coherent when we make contact.”

Jimin didn’t react. Not outwardly.

“That’s why you’re going out,” he said. “That’s why it’s you.”

Hoseok met his gaze. “You’re assuming she’s still conscious when we dock.”

“I’m assuming she’s alive,” Jimin said.

Hoseok nodded once, accepting the weight of it.

“We’ve got a 214-meter tether,” he said. “I’ll be in the MMU. If we hold her velocity at five meters per second or lower, I can intercept manually. Any faster, and it’s going to feel like jumping onto a moving train. With no brakes.”

Jimin shifted his attention back to the trajectory map. The MAV’s projected arc skated along the edge of the capture envelope. Tight. Risky.

“And if she’s coming in hot?”

Hoseok didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. Not afraid. Just honest.

“Then I miss. Or I grab and get pulled. Or we both spin. Worst case, we bounce off the line and watch her drift out into space.”

Another silence.

Jimin exhaled through his nose, measured and slow. “Engine cutoff gives us a 52-minute window before intercept. That’s our margin. Cruz will give you live telemetry as soon as thrust cuts. Until then, you’re just watching the clock.”

He turned to Armin.

“You’re backup. Stay tethered. If anything goes wrong, you stabilize and pull him back. No solo retrievals. No free-floating. You don’t follow unless he’s secured.”

Armin, already double-checking MMU thruster settings, nodded once. “Understood.”

Jimin finally stepped away from the console, circling toward the center of the room where the rest of the crew had settled in. Koah stood near the wall, pale but steady, his hands tucked under his arms. His eyes were fixed on the simulator feed looping in the corner screen—replaying the MAV’s predicted trajectory frame by frame.

“You ready, Nguyen?” Jimin asked.

Koah nodded slowly. “Ready or not, I’ll fly it.”

“You’ll fly it.”

There was no encouragement in Jimin’s tone. No pep talk. Just fact.

He looked around the room one last time.

Cruz, fingers still moving. Hoseok, pulling on his gloves. Armin, checking O2 flow levels. Koah, staring at the screen like he could will the outcome into submission.

They were tired. Stretched thin.

But they were here. Focused. Professional.

Jimin straightened.

“One shot,” he said. “That’s all we’ve got. We do this clean. No improvising. No ad-libbing. Stick to the numbers.”

A pause. 

“Let’s bring her home.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Inside the pop-up shelter, the air felt heavy despite the pressure regulators still holding steady. Not hot. Not thin. Just dense in the way quiet places get when they've been silent for too long. The fabric walls rustled faintly in the wind, a soft, steady whisper that only made the silence inside more absolute.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, the knees of her suit stained from weeks of kneeling, crawling, wrenching, fixing. Her back pressed against the outer curve of the tent wall, the thin material bowing slightly behind her. It wasn’t a real shelter—just the emergency module meant for temporary use while a permanent hab was being assembled. She’d been using it on and off for weeks now. Long enough that it had started to feel like her shadow.

The floor beneath her was a layer of insulation fabric over packed dirt, the dust already seeping through at the edges. She barely noticed anymore.

In her lap, she held a ration pack.

Foil-wrapped. Worn soft at the edges. The printed label had faded in the sun, but she could still make out the marker she’d scrawled across it months ago, back when she'd still thought labeling it would be funny, or maybe meaningful.

GOODBYE, M6.

She hadn’t meant to save it this long. At the time, it was just something she did—something to help her hold onto a timeline. A plan. Something resembling control.

She turned the pack slowly in her hands, thumb grazing the corner seam, feeling the slight give in the foil where it had crinkled. She could remember labeling it. She’d been tired even then, but not like this. Not spent. Not stripped to the nerve.

She had thought she’d open it on her last day here. Maybe even in orbit, on the way back. That it’d be part of a ritual. A small victory meal. A full-circle moment.

Instead, she was on the floor of a half-collapsed tent, staring down at a meal that hadn’t changed, even though everything else had.

Her fingers hesitated on the tear notch.

It was a stupid thing to hesitate over.

But still, she did.

Not because of what was inside. Just... because once she opened it, there’d be nothing else left to mark the moment. No more lines between before and after. Just the long blur of now.

She broke the seal with a jerk.

The foil hissed and gave. The sound was too loud in the confined space, and she winced instinctively, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like anyone could hear her.

She stared down at the contents for a long time. Rehydrated rice. Some kind of protein paste. Technically flavored, but she’d stopped believing the labels weeks ago. Food wasn’t about enjoyment out here. It was function. And now, even that was ceremonial.

She took the first bite without thinking. It was automatic. A routine. Chew. Swallow. The texture was soft and faintly gritty, like every other meal. It filled her mouth with the memory of nothing. No comfort. No warmth. Just fuel. The bland kind.

She kept eating, mechanically. Chewing slower with each bite.

She didn’t want it. She wasn’t hungry. But there was a gravity to finishing it now, to not leaving it half-eaten like so many others. If she was going to say goodbye to this place, she’d do it clean.

The name on the packet felt like a joke now. Goodbye, M6.

As if a single meal could contain all that. As if the act of opening it, eating it, could somehow make peace with everything this place had taken.

The dust storms. The silence. The endless repairs. The isolation so thick it had begun to feel like part of her own skin.

She glanced around the tent. It had held up better than she’d expected, all things considered. One corner had a slow leak that never quite sealed, and the interior fabric was stained along the floor seam from some leak weeks ago that had never quite dried. Her helmet sat nearby, a faint film of red dust still clinging to the visor.

There was no light here, not really. Just the pale wash from the tablet screen on standby mode across from her, casting a soft glow over her boots and the half-empty water pouch at her side.

There were no clocks anymore. Not physical ones, at least. Just the countdown in her head. The one that had started ticking the moment the mission shifted from survival to escape.

She took another bite. Slower this time. Her jaw moved like it was made of something heavier than bone.

How long had it been since she’d last spoken to someone face to face? Since someone had looked at her and not through a camera feed? The last message from April had been clipped like all messages from the girl were.

We’re locked in. Launch is yours. Be safe.

That was hours ago.

Possibly longer. Y/N had long since stopped being able to tell the passage of time on this planet. She did not even know if the days on her camera were correct. She would not know until she was on the Starfire, truly, if she'd been out here for over a year.

Y/N swallowed the last bite, feeling the dense weight of it settle in her stomach. It sat like lead. Not unpleasant. Just... full. In that way things only feel full when you know there’s nothing else coming.

She held the empty foil pouch in both hands for a moment. Then flattened it. Folded it once. Then again. The label was barely visible now. Just a faint smudge of black ink against silver.

She placed it carefully beside her helmet.

She leaned back against the wall of the tent and let her eyes close for a moment. She didn’t sleep. Didn’t even try. Just let her mind rest against the quiet.

The wind rattled faintly outside. The fabric creaked. Somewhere deep in the MAV’s systems—now half a kilometer away—the flight prep sequence was probably already ticking through a checklist.

She’d get up soon. She’d suit up. She’d climb inside that gutted, patched-together vehicle, and trust it to hold long enough to throw her into the sky.

But for now, she stayed where she was. Just a woman in a tent, finishing her last meal on a planet that never welcomed her.

She looked at the empty ration pack one last time.

“Goodbye,” she said quietly. Not to the food. Not to the tent.

Just to the dust.

To the silence.

To the part of her that would always stay behind.

Chapter 10: Like Iron Man

The NOSA campus had never seen anything like it.

Even from a kilometer out, the perimeter was packed. People leaned against barricades and each other, huddled in clusters under floodlights bright enough to wash the stars from the sky. The night, if it could still be called that, was drowned in artificial daylight—spotlights from media towers, camera flashes from a thousand news crews, lens-flares from civilian drones hovering in place like mechanical fireflies.

The crowd stretched for blocks. Families with children on their shoulders. Retired engineers in old NOSA polos. College students wrapped in space agency flags. All of them waiting—silent now, or murmuring in low, expectant voices. Most watched the massive Jumbotrons mounted along the walls, where every second of telemetry, every heartbeat from the Starfire, was being broadcast in real time. Or close enough.

Inside the gates, the chaos was no less intense, just better organized. The lawns around the main complex were a grid of satellite trucks, news tents, interview stations, and temporary barricades. It looked like a music festival for a world that had stopped needing music. The buzz of conversation, of nerves and theory and speculation, filled the air like static. You could feel the tension in the soles of your feet.

“Y/L/N RESCUE MISSION”—the headline repeated on every screen. Beneath it, a stream of live feeds: camera angles inside Starfire’s command deck, raw footage of the launch vehicle back on M6-117, and endless shots of mission engineers working inside NOSA’s own nerve center.

It had the atmosphere of a global broadcast event, but the stakes felt heavier than spectacle. There was no backup plan. No one else coming. It was this or nothing.

In the observation gallery above Mission Control, the tone was different—quieter, but no less charged. The room sat high above the main floor, separated by thick soundproof glass and a subtle line of recessed lighting. A few dozen seats were arranged in staggered rows. Most were filled.

Some guests were dignitaries, political envoys, government liaisons. Others were agency veterans or invited family. No one talked much. Every pair of eyes was focused on the wall of screens below.

At the front of the gallery, Yoongi stood at the glass, his hands tucked into his pockets. He hadn’t spoken in nearly fifteen minutes. Not since the MAV ignition timer passed the T-60 mark. His reflection in the glass looked calm. It wasn’t.

Beside him, Mateo stood like a coiled spring—arms crossed tightly, one boot tapping silently against the floor. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the main feed: a wide-angle shot of the MAV, barely visible in the amber haze of M6-117’s dusk light. The tarp-covered nose fluttered faintly in the breeze. The image looked unreal.

A few steps away, Alice shifted her weight for the tenth time in as many minutes. She couldn’t keep still. Her jacket sleeves were bunched at her wrists, one hand fidgeting with the hem of her cuff.

She stared out over the glass, her voice low. “If something goes wrong... what can Mission Control do?”

Mateo didn’t turn. His eyes stayed locked on the MAV telemetry feed, where the fuel lines were just beginning to pressurize.

“Nothing,” he said. Blunt. Final. “We can’t do anything.”

Alice turned to look at him. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he repeated. “Twelve light-minutes out. Every command we send, every word we speak, takes twelve minutes to get there. Another twelve to hear the response. The launch sequence is automated. Remote override is already locked. Once she pushes ignition, we’re out of the loop.”

He exhaled, slow and controlled. “The launch takes twelve minutes. We won’t even get confirmation until it’s already over.”

The silence that followed was cold. Not angry. Just still.

Alice looked back at the feed. Her hands had gone still.

“She’s really alone,” she said quietly.

Mateo nodded once. “The loneliest human being in the system.”

She wanted to ask him if this was a good idea. If it should’ve gone differently. But there was no point. The plan wasn’t theoretical anymore. The preparations were over. They had crossed the point of no return days ago.

And it wasn’t just them watching.

Outside, the crowd was still growing. Across the world—cities, schools, military bases, public squares—people gathered around screens. Governments had lifted firewalls. Feeds were open in every major language. There were kids on rooftops in Seoul and nurses watching from break rooms in São Paulo. An entire generation had come of age watching people like Y/N step into the unknown, and now the world held its breath to see if she would make it back.

Alice hesitated. Then asked, quietly, “Are we sure we want to be broadcasting this? If something goes wrong—”

Mateo finally turned. His eyes met hers—sharp, dark, and unwavering.

“Yes,” he said.

It wasn’t said for debate. It was said because it was true.

“She signed up for this. We all did. We don’t get to hide it now.”

He looked back down at the floor below, at the engineers, the specialists, the people sweating through every line of code, every telemetry update, every heartbeat.

“She deserves for the world to see what it looks like when someone says yes to an impossible thing. Whether it works or not.”

Alice looked down again, her throat tight.

Then the comms feed crackled to life.

“Fuel pressure green,” Valencia’s voice said, smooth and precise over the open line. “Oxidizer stable. Thermal spread within margins.”

Every head in the room turned toward the console.

Onscreen, the MAV’s internal systems lit up in sequence, lines of green text confirming status. The ship looked small, too small for what it had to do.

Yoongi spoke for the first time.

“Here we go.”

And below them, on the fractured surface of a red world, the countdown continued.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

On Taurus 1, the city didn’t sleep.

Not tonight.

From the upper skyrails to the narrow alleys around Old Harbor, people had gathered in thick knots along sidewalks, rooftops, train platforms—anywhere with a clear view of the public display boards. Giant screens mounted at intersections flickered and glowed, their live feeds broadcasting the MAV telemetry like gospel. The air hummed with a low static of voices and distant music, the scent of food stalls clinging to warm air vented from cafes and transport hubs.

No one moved much. Conversations were hushed. The entire city had turned its face toward the sky, or the screens, or both—gathered under the soft yellow light of a hundred thousand advertisements that, for once, had all been silenced.

The mission feed had taken over everything.

Val’s voice cut through the background noise—steady, calm, practiced. A voice people had come to trust not because it was flashy, but because it didn’t flinch.

“Engine alignment confirmed. No deviation. Guidance lock acquired.”

The words echoed out from rooftop speakers, tunnel intercoms, even the handhelds of passersby. In a place usually driven by speed and noise and business, it was the quiet that stood out now. Even the traffic had slowed.

On the north side of the city, at the junction plaza near Station Six, a child perched on their father’s shoulders asked a question no one could quite answer: Is she scared?

The father didn’t respond right away. Just kept his eyes on the screen, jaw clenched, fingers curled tight around the kid’s legs.

Across the sea, thousands of kilometers away, the cold had arrived early in Capital City.

It was well below freezing in Palace Square, and still the crowds came. Blankets wrapped tight around shoulders, gloves shoved into pockets already warmed by heat packs. The vapor of breath rose in small white clouds, shared between strangers standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the towering faces of state buildings and lighted monuments.

No one was talking.

The massive curved screen suspended above the plaza showed a grainy image of the MAV on M6-117—dust curling around its base, canvas shivering at the nose. To anyone unfamiliar, it looked unfinished, even broken. But the people here knew what they were looking at. They knew that stripped-down shell was all that stood between a stranded woman and the vacuum of space.

A flicker of telemetry updated in the corner of the screen.

“Communications five by five,” Val confirmed, her voice broadcast through hidden speakers tucked into the stone architecture. “Telemetry stable. NAV sync clean.”

A ripple went through the crowd. Not a cheer, not yet—but a collective exhale. A small signal that things were still holding together. That the silence from the planet below was expected, not ominous.

Down in the center of the square, an elderly woman gripped her cane tighter. She remembered a time when humanity barely had satellites, let alone interplanetary relays. When communication was limited to voices over radios, not faces on screens. She watched the numbers tick by with quiet reverence, lips moving soundlessly with each update.

In the background, cameras captured everything. News crews stood behind makeshift barricades. Their anchors didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The images told the story better than words could—millions gathered across continents, all facing the same direction, watching the same thing.

This wasn’t politics. This wasn’t entertainment.

This was a moment.

From the outposts on Europa’s ice fields to the orbital towers over Aguerra Prime, from Earth’s equatorial cities to the research hubs in high desert plateaus, the signal threaded its way through cables, satellites, relay drones and fiber. The delay was small, but the wait still felt immense.

And the voice—Val’s voice—was the only thing filling that space.

“Power distribution is stable across all systems… Primary tanks at ninety-eight percent… Environmental seals remain intact.”

The woman had been on countless missions, but her tone never changed. She didn’t hype. She didn’t understate. She just gave the truth, and that was all anyone wanted.

In a small apartment above a grocery stand in southern Calisto City, a woman sat on the floor with her back against a radiator, hands folded under her chin. She wasn’t watching the screen so much as listening—eyes closed, letting the familiar cadence of Val’s voice wrap around her like a blanket.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought: She’s going to make it. She has to.

Because failure didn’t feel like an option anymore. Not here. Not now. Not with the whole world bearing witness.

And even if it was—

Even if it could all go sideways—

People had still come.

They came to see courage. They came to see proof that someone, somewhere, was still willing to take the kind of risk that didn’t come with guarantees. Not for money. Not for glory.

Just because it was right.

Because someone had to try.

The universe held its breath.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Inside the Starfire’s flight deck, Jimin sat motionless in the command chair. His posture was straight, composed, but his fingers betrayed him—curled tight around the edge of the console, knuckles just beginning to pale. The overhead lighting was low, throwing soft shadows across the brushed metal panels and illuminating the subdued glow of the displays. Every screen around him pulsed with movement: vector plots, fuel flow readouts, ascent modeling, thermal stress predictions. The MAV's telemetry scrolled in tight bands of green text.

The air in the flight deck had taken on a different quality—thinner, almost reverent. The kind of silence found in hospitals before surgery or courtrooms just before a verdict. There wasn’t much to say anymore. Nothing to debate. Every variable had been checked. Every contingency rehearsed. Everything now came down to what they could no longer touch.

Jimin exhaled slowly and leaned forward just enough to bring his hands back over the controls. His eyes scanned the readouts again, even though he already knew what they said.

MAV systems nominal. Engine tanks stable. Remote link active. T-minus 2:05 and counting.

Jimin closed his eyes for a single heartbeat.

Just long enough to draw a line between simulation and reality.

This wasn’t training. This wasn’t rehearsal. This was it—the launch. The intercept. The final phase of a mission that had mutated over time into something personal, something unspeakably heavy. It had started with a disaster. A disappearance. The loss of the H-G. And then—somehow, impossibly—not a death.

Jimin opened his eyes. The screens were still there. The MAV’s signal solid. The countdown ticking in blue at the top-right corner of the main panel. He reached out and keyed the comms open, his fingers steady, his voice measured.

“Two minutes, Y/L/N,” he said. “How’re you holding up down there?”

The line crackled softly, the signal traveling across satellites and space, rebounding off relays stationed in orbit over a planet with no name beyond its catalog number.

In the MAV, Y/N sat strapped into a frame of aluminum and bolted steel, wires running overhead in exposed bundles. The EVA suit compressed slightly around her shoulders and chest as she shifted, pressure equalizing. She wasn’t in a cockpit so much as a box—jury-rigged, stripped down, sealed with reinforced tarp and trust. Her gloved hands rested on the straps that held her to the hull. There were no controls in front of her. No windows.

Koah was flying it from orbit.

Her job was to stay alive.

The voice in her ear was clear. Familiar. Unmistakable.

Y/N blinked once, swallowed hard, and let her head tilt slightly back against the padding behind her helmet. Her reply came after a pause. Not because she didn’t have an answer, but because she needed the moment to believe that this wasn’t just a voice in her head.

“It’s good to hear you, Commander,” she said quietly.

Jimin blinked against the burn in his eyes. He didn’t let it take him.

“Likewise, Doc,” he replied. His voice was steady, but not rigid. A softness sat underneath it. Something real. “You ready?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked upward, as if she could see through the canvas dome overhead. She stared at the riveted seams—the makeshift patchwork of layered thermal tarp, epoxy sealant, and internal scaffolding that shouldn’t have worked.

But it had held.

She exhaled slowly. Not out of fear. Just... the weight of it all.

“I’m ready,” she said. “I’m really ready to come home.”

Her voice cracked just a little on home , and she bit it back, jaw clenched. She hadn’t cried since Sol 64. Not really. But hearing his voice—knowing they were up there, waiting—cut through whatever armor she’d built to survive this place.

“Thanks,” she added, quieter now. “For coming to get me.”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. Just watched the readouts, his throat tight.

“You’ve got a hell of a ride ahead of you,” he said finally. “Eleven, maybe twelve G’s. You black out, don’t panic. Nguyen’s got the stick.”

There was a long enough pause on the other end that for a second he thought the signal dropped—until she spoke again, drier now.

“Tell that asshole no barrel rolls.”

He huffed out something like a laugh, short and tight. Even now, she still had that edge to her.

“All right,” he said, fingers moving across the panel in front of him. “Stand by for final call.”

He toggled to internal comms. “CAPCOM.”

“Go,” Val replied. Sharp. Focused. No hesitation.

“Remote command.”

Koah didn’t even look up, just flexed his fingers once and leaned toward the control interface. “Remote is go.”

“Recovery?”

Down in Airlock 2, Hoseok checked his MMU pack again. The power display glowed a steady green. His tether was locked, rigged to a reinforced anchor point. He stared through the small viewport at the empty space beyond.

“Recovery go.”

“Secondary recovery.”

“Go,” Armin said, clipped and sure, one hand already braced against the airlock frame.

Jimin’s eyes returned to the main screen. The MAV sat alone on the dusty plain of M6-117, surrounded by wind-blown tracks and the long shadow of the rising sun. From orbit it looked like a relic—something half-buried, forgotten.

But it was enough.

He keyed the last channel.

“Pilot.”

Static. Then her voice, sharp again. Controlled.

“Go.”

Jimin leaned in and pressed the command sequence.

The ignition protocol loaded in less than a second.

“Main engines primed,” Val confirmed. “Propellant mix green. Fuel tanks pressurized.”

“Remote throttle engaged,” Koah said. His voice was tight now. All business. No jokes.

Jimin sat back, hands laced together in his lap.

“Copy all,” he said, voice low but firm. “Initiate burn in ten.”

There was no final speech. No dramatics. Just numbers and signal strength and the trust they’d placed in each other long before this moment.

The MAV’s engine bell flared on the screen—dull red at first, then blinding white.

Jimin’s voice came again, barely above a whisper.

“Let’s bring French Fry home.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Across Earth, and far beyond, the world watched.

On Aguerra Prime, crowds packed the city cores and lunar domes, eyes turned to public screens suspended above skyline intersections and carved into rock facades. In New York, traffic came to a crawl as pedestrians spilled into the street, unmoving, faces lit by the blue glow of the feed flickering across Times Square’s massive displays. The buildings around them blinked in time with telemetry overlays.

No one spoke. Even the news anchors had gone quiet.

From orbit to surface, from time zones to colonies, from palaces to tenement rooftops—the entire human footprint held its breath.

And then, her voice.

“See you in a few, Commander.”

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t triumphant. But it was enough.

Cheers erupted in the streets. Not wild celebration, but something sharper, more reverent. A wave of relief laced with awe. Like witnessing history claw its way forward by sheer will.

Inside Mission Control, Yoongi stood above the floor, hands folded behind his back, shoulders rigid. Through the glass below, the control room thrummed with quiet motion. Dozens of personnel hunched over their stations, focused, motionless, disciplined. No one flinched. This wasn’t the part where anyone could afford to.

Jimin’s voice came over the comms. Measured. Familiar.

“Mission Control, this is Starfire Actual. We are go for launch. Proceeding on schedule. Ten seconds to burn… mark.”

On Starfire’s flight deck, Koah’s hands moved like water over the guidance array. Calm. Precise.

“Main engines start.”

The countdown was a drumbeat. Eight. Seven. Six.

“Mooring clamps released,” Val called, her voice tight but focused. There was no wasted tone. No room for nerves.

“Five seconds, French,” Jimin warned, his voice now only for her. “Hang on.”

Inside the MAV, Y/N’s fingers tightened around the sides of her seat frame—there were no proper handholds. The EVA suit pressed in at every angle. The inner hull rattled under tension. She looked up once, just once, at the canvas patch stretched across what used to be a pressurized nose cone.

It fluttered slightly in the wind.

No going back.

“Four... three... two... one...”

The launch struck like a fist.

The MAV surged upward, a violent lurch that slammed Y/N against the harness with brutal force. Her teeth clenched hard enough to ache. Her vision blurred almost immediately, and the noise—the sound—was nothing like she’d trained for. Not clean. Not linear. It was raw, like metal trying to tear itself apart.

The G-forces built fast, more than her body could manage. Her chest compressed. Her vision narrowed. Her thoughts splintered.

The canvas above her groaned, then tore.

A flap of synthetic material snapped free, yanked away by the pressure difference, and vanished into the sky. Her view opened—to a sliver of black and rising red horizon—before she had time to register it.

And then her world went gray.

“Velocity seven-forty-one meters per second. Altitude thirteen-fifty meters,” Val called out. Her tone was tight now, not from fear, but from sheer control.

“That’s too low,” Jimin snapped. “We’re not gaining fast enough.”

“I know!” Koah shot back, knuckles white on the controls. “It’s underpowered, I’m fighting drag!”

In the MAV, Y/N didn’t hear them. Her consciousness danced at the edge, fraying like thread. Her fingers twitched once. Her heartbeat pounded in her skull, then slowed. Her last clear thought was the sky.

The stars weren’t just stars anymore.

They were clean. Sharp. Unreachable.

She blinked once.

Then everything went dark.

On Starfire’s flight deck, the numbers kept climbing.

“Main shutdown in three... two... one. Shutdown confirmed.”

The cabin trembled faintly as the relay synced. Jimin didn’t speak yet. He waited. He always waited, just in case—just long enough for something to go wrong.

“Back to auto-guidance,” Koah said, almost to himself. “Confirm shutdown complete. Signal holding.”

Jimin leaned over the nav display, eyes locked on the MAV’s marker. “Y/N?” he said, voice low but direct. “Do you read?”

Silence.

Val was already glancing back over her shoulder. She didn’t need to say it.

“She’s probably out,” Hoseok said from Airlock 2. His tone wasn’t casual—it was informed. Clinical. But not detached. “Twelve Gs minimum. That’s enough to knock her unconscious for at least a minute.”

Jimin nodded. It wasn’t good news, but it wasn’t failure. Not yet.

“Copy that,” he said, steadying his voice. “Keep watching her vitals.”

Val’s eyes flicked across the telemetry. “Pings are coming in. Altitude’s stabilizing.”

Jimin leaned in closer.

“What’s the intercept velocity?”

Val hesitated. Then: “Eleven meters per second.”

Jimin didn’t have to ask.

Hoseok’s voice crackled over comms. “I can make that work.”

But before anyone could breathe again, Val went still. Her fingers froze mid-keystroke.

She stared at the newest numbers coming in.

Her voice was thin now. Controlled, but shaken.

“…distance at intercept will be sixty-eight kilometers.”

The words didn’t land immediately.

Then Hoseok’s voice, low and incredulous: “Did you say sixty-eight kilometers?”

Koah turned from his station, the color draining from his face.

“Oh my god.”

Everything went quiet.

Then Jimin snapped into motion.

“Keep it together,” he barked. “Work the problem. Nguyen—do we have any fuel in the MAV?”

“Negative,” Koah replied without delay, already double-checking. “OMS was pulled to cut weight. There’s nothing left.”

Jimin didn’t blink.

He pivoted sharply toward Val, who was already deep in the numbers.

“Then we go to her,” he said. His voice left no room for interpretation. “Talk to me.”

Val’s eyes stayed locked on the data, her fingers flying over the console. She didn’t hesitate.

“Time to intercept: thirty-nine minutes, twelve seconds,” she said.

Jimin nodded once. That was the window. That was the clock now.

He began to pace, just two short steps in either direction, mind moving faster than his body ever could. His gaze jumped to the thrust control parameters. An idea started forming.

“What if we realign the attitude thrusters? Push toward her. Cut the distance manually.”

Koah hesitated. Not because he doubted the idea, but because it came with a cost.

“Depends how much attitude fuel we want left for return navigation,” he said. “Use too much now and we compromise our ability to reorient later.”

Jimin's eyes locked on him. “How much do you need for reentry?”

Koah was already running the mental math, his fingers tapping quick calculations against his thigh.

“Minimum? Twenty percent.”

Jimin turned to Cruz. “Do it. Use seventy-five point five of what’s left.”

Cruz was already on it. Her hands flew over her controls like they were extensions of her own thoughts.

“Burning now.”

Val’s eyes darted across the new values. “Intercept range now zero,” she confirmed. Then a pause, her brow creasing. “But relative velocity is climbing. Forty-two meters per second.”

Jimin didn’t flinch. “Then we have thirty-nine minutes to figure out how to slow down.” He turned to Koah. “Light it up.”

Outside, the attitude thrusters hissed to life. The Starfire tipped, adjusted, and settled into a new trajectory. The maneuver was subtle from within, but its implications were massive.

Inside the MAV, Y/N stirred.

Her eyelids fluttered. Then pain. Her chest throbbed, ribs stabbing with each breath. She shifted and regretted it immediately. The harness had cut into her side during ascent, and now every part of her body screamed.

She opened her eyes. The curved blue-white limb of M6-117 arced beneath her. The stars beyond it were clean, sharp, endless. Her head swam.

The planet looked peaceful. Beautiful, even. But it didn’t matter.

With a wheezing breath, she lifted one gloved hand and extended her middle finger toward the viewport. “Fuck you, M6,” she rasped.

It helped.

Her hand found the comms panel. She keyed the line with fingers that didn’t feel entirely her own.

“MAV to Starfire,” she croaked.

On the flight deck, Jimin straightened. The voice was garbled, barely legible, but it was hers.

“Affirmative, Commander,” came the reply. Dry. Thin. Alive.

Jimin exhaled for the first time in a minute. “What’s your status?”

“Chest hurts. Pretty sure I cracked something.” A pause. “You?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Jimin’s mouth. “We’re making our way to you. Launch didn’t go entirely to plan.”

“No shit,” she muttered. “Canvas blew off halfway through.”

Val confirmed with a nod. “That tracks.”

A beat. Then her voice again, quieter now. “How bad is it, Commander?”

Jimin hesitated. Then: “Intercept range is zero. But relative velocity—forty-two meters per second.”

Silence.

Then, over the comms, Y/N's voice returned. Flat. Dry. Blunt as ever.

"Well. Shit."

On the Starfire's flight deck, the quiet that followed wasn't the stunned kind. It was the focused kind—a collective exhale that reminded them all the window hadn't closed. Not yet.

The faint tapping of keys filled the room, background to the controlled chaos of data flowing faster than thought.

Then: "Commander?"

Jimin turned toward the console. "Go ahead."

Y/N's voice came back steadier now, but laced with something unspoken. A tension undercut by humor, desperation, maybe both.

"If I poke a hole in my EVA glove," she said, tone far too casual, "the escaping air should act like thrust, right?"

Val looked up, startled. "She's joking."

Jimin didn’t respond right away. He waited.

"I mean, I could aim with my arm," Y/N continued, deadpan. "Micro-course correction. Little puffs of Iron Man.”

Jimin let his eyes close for a breath, then reopened them.

"You wouldn't have control. No vector stability. You're gambling with a half-second burn and zero forgiveness."

"All true," Y/N said.

A pause.

Then, delighted: "But I’d get to fly like Iron Man."

Cruz let out a groan. Val visibly resisted the urge to smack something. Koah muttered, "We should've left her on that rock."

Jimin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "You're not flying like Iron Man, Y/N."

She didn’t answer right away, but he could hear her smiling.

Despite everything, Jimin laughed—just once, just enough to let the tension crack. Around him, the room eased half a degree. Even Koah glanced up, eyes lighter than a second before.

Then something shifted in Jimin's posture.

His head tilted. His brows drew together, just slightly.

And then he straightened.

"Maybe... it’s not the worst idea."

Koah’s head snapped up. "No. It is. It’s the worst idea ever pitched in this room. And I’ve heard you pitch bad ones."

Jimin ignored him. "Not her part," he clarified quickly, gesturing in the air. "But the concept. Using controlled decompression for thrust."

Val blinked, processing. The room quieted again, this time differently—expectant.

Jimin’s voice sharpened. "Nguyen, get Zimmermann's station up."

Koah didn’t argue this time. He keyed into the data interface. "It's up. What are we running?"

"I need to know what happens if we blow the VAL."

Val froze.

Koah stared.

The air seemed to still.

"You want to open the vehicular airlock?" Koah asked, incredulous.

"It'll kick us forward," Jimin said evenly.

"And maybe shear the nose off the ship in the process," Koah replied. "Not to mention evacuating every molecule of atmosphere we have."

"We seal the bridge and reactor," Jimin said. "The rest goes vacuo. We survive it."

Koah opened his mouth again but stopped, running mental checks. His fingers tapped at speed.

"We still can’t steer it," he said finally. "Same problem. No directional control."

Jimin countered, “We don’t need to steer. The VAL is in the nose. We point the nose at her, then blow it. That’s our push."

Koah stared at the data now pouring in.

"A full breach at the VAL gives us... twenty-nine meters per second in retro."

Val leaned in. Her voice was almost a whisper. "That brings intercept down to thirteen meters per second."

Jimin nodded. "Jung, you hearing this?"

From Airlock 2, Hoseok replied. Calm. Steady. "Loud and clear, Commander."

On the flight deck, tension knotted tight.

Koah shook his head slowly. "How do we open the airlock doors remotely? There's no mechanism. Someone has to be inside."

Jimin didn’t pause. He scanned the room and zeroed in.

"Zimmermann."

Armin's voice came in, clear. "Go ahead."

Jimin keyed his mic. "Take your suit off."

There was a pause. Then, more slowly:

"Say again, Commander?"

"You’re coming back in to make a bomb."

There was static.

Then, from the MAV:

"Did you just say bomb?"

Y/N’s voice, sharper now, carried clear indignation. "You guys are making a bomb without me?"

Back in Airlock 2, Armin's voice came through the comms with the kind of tight restraint that only barely held back the obvious. "Commander... I feel like I should mention that setting off an explosive device on a spacecraft is, objectively, a terrible idea."

No one disagreed. But no one argued, either.

Jimin didn’t flinch. He nodded once, his voice firm. "Copy that. Can you do it?"

There was a pause, a slow exhale, the kind you give before stepping off a ledge. Then:

"Ja. I can."

It wasn’t bravado. It was acceptance. And it was final.

At NOSA Mission Control, chaos erupted.

Consoles lit up. Voices rose over each other. The phrase "breach the VAL" passed from headset to headset like a shockwave.

Jimin's voice cut through the noise like a scalpel. "Houston, be advised: we are initiating a deliberate VAL breach to produce thrust."

Mateo, sitting at his console, stared like he’d misheard. His coffee mug tipped over, unnoticed, a dark smear crawling across the surface.

"Did he just say breach the VAL?"

Nobody answered. They were too busy shouting.

Back on the Starfire, Jimin gave no time for panic to root.

"Jung," he barked, already moving. "Suit stays on. Meet Cruz at Airlock 1. We’ll open the outer hatch. I need you to place the charge on the inner VAL door."

Hoseok responded instantly. "Copy. Moving."

"Once it's placed, crawl back to Airlock 2 via the hull."

"Understood."

Inside the MAV, Y/N gripped a twisted piece of console framing, her knuckles bone-white.

Her voice cracked across the line. "Commander, I can’t let you do this. I’m ready to punch the suit. Let’s go with the Iron Man plan."

"Absolutely not," Jimin said without missing a beat.

She hesitated.

When she spoke again, it was softer. There was a raw edge in her voice that hadn’t been there before.

"Thing is... I want to be the only one in the memorials. Just me. I earned that. You stay alive."

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Jimin came back, cool as ever. "Oh. Well. If you put it like that..."

You could almost hear him looking at the nonexistent camera.

"Hang on, just checking my shoulder patch—yep, still says Commander. So shut up."

Y/N muttered something through the comms.

Jimin raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"Smart ass."

"Heard that."

In the forward prep bay, Armin worked fast. His hands were steady, methodical. A beaker clinked as he set it down. He tapped sugar into it like it was a recipe—not an improvised explosive.

He drilled the stopper. Ran wire through. Sealed the threads. His foot tapped a steady rhythm against the deck—nerves or calculation, no one could say.

Val arrived just as he was finishing the setup. She took one look and exhaled sharply.

"Bomb?"

He didn’t even glance up. "Bomb. One kilo of sugar in pure O2 releases over 16 million joules. We don’t need much. This will do."

He poured a controlled stream of liquid oxygen into the beaker. It hissed softly. Precise. Calm.

Val blinked. "That’s... eight times a stick of dynamite."

"Yes," Armin said, still focused. "That’s why I’m using less than half a kilo."

He twisted the wire leads clean, stripped them down, and twisted them to bare copper. Held them up. "Can you run this to a lighting panel?"

Val reached for the leads with a small grin. "You are terrifyingly good at this."

Armin offered the faintest shrug. "We all have hobbies."

Out in the Vehicular Airlock, Hoseok stood in full EVA gear, breathing slow and steady, watching the countdown tick by on his suit HUD. The silence of the chamber was suffocating, broken only by the faint hiss of his oxygen flow. Val crouched beside him at the access panel, hands moving with mechanical precision as she stripped wires and connected the last leads to Armin’s improvised explosive.

There wasn’t room for doubt now. No room for nerves.

"Make sure you're not still here when it goes off," Val said, voice level but tense. Her tone had an edge of affection wrapped in warning. She didn’t look up from the panel as she spoke, but her eyes flicked briefly toward the timer. "If you’re still inside when this blows, I swear I’ll haunt your ass."

Hoseok nodded once, accepting the charge she handed him with both hands. He double-checked the wiring, verifying it by feel and muscle memory more than sight. Then he turned to go.

Val reached out, gripping his arm through the suit. Their eyes met through the visor. For a beat, everything else faded.

Then she leaned in and tapped her lips gently against his helmet.

"Be careful," she said. Her voice was low, almost tender. "And don’t tell anyone I did that."

A small smile ghosted across Hoseok's face. "Not a word."

The inner hatch sealed behind him with a hiss. Val exhaled slowly and turned back to her console, her expression shifting into one of sheer focus.

Hoseok made his way along the hull, hands gripping the external rails with measured certainty. Every move was deliberate. The ship groaned beneath him, metal protesting the torque of its slight realignment, but his breathing stayed even. The VAL door came into view. A dark line of reinforced seams. Waiting.

He anchored himself with one tether and affixed the device to the frame, checking each contact. No errors. No drift.

"Bomb is set," he said calmly into the comm. "Returning to Airlock 2."

Inside the flight deck, the tension wound tighter. Koah's voice came through with urgency. "Running updated intercept numbers. Even with ideal thrust vector, we’re still wide."

Jimin stood behind him, brow furrowed. "How wide?"

Val answered. "Two hundred sixty meters. She’ll miss the docking field completely."

Jimin didn’t curse. He just turned and walked. No explanation, no hesitation.

"Commander?" Koah called after him.

But Jimin was already out the hatch.

By the time he reached Airlock 2, Hoseok was halfway out of his MMU. Jimin was already sealing his own helmet.

"Intercept's out of reach," Jimin said, voice clipped. "I’m going untethered."

Hoseok froze. "Sir, let me go. I’m already out. I can do it."

"I know you can," Jimin replied, voice sharp. "But I’m not risking you. That’s an order."

Hoseok met his eyes, jaw set. There was no convincing him. Just acceptance.

"Understood."

Jimin tapped his comm. "Cruz, countdown to detonation?"

Val’s voice was taut. "Fifteen seconds."

Jimin stepped into position at the outer hatch.

"We do love a dramatic exit," he murmured.

Inside the cockpit, Armin pulled his harness tight. Koah was already strapped in, eyes darting between velocity plots and range estimates. His knuckles were white against the control board.

Val monitored the panel. Her voice rang out like a steady drumbeat.

"Ten seconds."

Koah muttered to himself. "Everyone hates rockets until they’re out of options."

"Five. Four. Three."

Jimin, floating at the threshold, gave the hull one last look.

"Brace."

"Two. One. Activating Panel 41."

A deep, muffled thud rolled through the Starfire like distant thunder. Not sound exactly—there was no air in space to carry it—but the force made itself known. The hull shuddered, groaned. Lights flickered. Loose gear trembled in its racks.

Then came the real shock.

The VAL blew.

A controlled detonation, precise and brutal, sheared the airlock open and instantly vented thousands of cubic meters of atmosphere into vacuum. The entire ship jerked backward with the force of it, like a train car hit from behind. A deep vibration passed through the frame, through the floor, through every rib and brace and bolt. It knocked Koah’s stylus clean out of his hand. Armin’s chair jolted sideways before his harness caught him. Val clenched her jaw and rode it out, eyes glued to the numbers spilling down her screen.

“Bridge seal’s holding,” she confirmed tightly, voice clipped. “Pressure integrity green. No hull breaches on aft or secondary decks.”

“Damage?” Jimin’s voice came through the comms, taut but level.

Val didn’t glance up. “Don’t care. Not yet. Relative velocity?”

A beat passed as telemetry recalculated.

“...Twelve meters per second.”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. Somewhere down in Airlock 2, recovering from the blast wave, he steadied himself, got his bearings. Then his voice came again.

“Copy.”

He knew what that meant. Twelve meters per second wasn’t survivable. Not for a drifting MAV capsule with no maneuvering thrusters, no OMS, no way to brake. Not for a rescue mission balanced this delicately on the knife’s edge.

There was no choice.

He locked his boots to the airlock grid, checked his line, and shoved off.

And just like that, Commander Jimin of the NOSA Starfire was flying.

He drifted into space with the practiced control of a man who had trained for this, but never expected to actually do it. The blackness opened in front of him—huge, endless, and filled with nothing but stars and one tumbling, half-functional MAV pod moving just a little too fast to catch.

His target.

“Three-twelve meters?!” Y/N’s voice came sharp and raw through the comms, her voice rising in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You guys have got to stop measuring these distances in football fields. I’m not an orbital wide receiver!”

Jimin grimaced behind his visor. “Visual on MAV. Frenchie, you’re still out of reach. I’m closing, but... I’m not going to make it in time.”

A pause.

Inside the MAV, Y/N’s eyes locked on the Commander’s approaching form—still too distant. Still too slow. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears, feel the raw ache in her chest from the G-force. Her ribs throbbed. Her vision swam. But somewhere under the pain, she knew what she had to do.

Her voice came low but clear. “Commander.”

“I see you,” Jimin answered, urgency seeping into his tone now. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Too late.

Y/N unstrapped the harness.

Her fingers found the jagged shard of paneling she’d kept since the cabin decompression—sharp enough to pierce composite. Her breath caught. This was the part no one had trained her for.

She took one last breath.

And stabbed her suit.

The hiss was immediate. A sharp, explosive burst of air ripped out of the tiny hole near her forearm. It didn’t tear her apart, didn’t rip the arm off like a cartoon. But it shoved her—hard. She rocketed forward, air gushing past her helmet in a screaming roar. The force pressed her back in the suit like a punch to the chest. Her limbs trembled.

But she was moving.

“Jesus Christ, Frenchie!” Val’s voice snapped through the channel.

“I said I got this!” Y/N barked back. She twisted her wrist, angling the suit, nudging her path toward Jimin.

The gap narrowed.

Inside the flight deck, Val’s hands moved in a blur, feeding telemetry to both of them. “Relative closing velocity… 5.4 meters per second. Declining. Twenty-eight meters to contact.”

Jimin adjusted his MMU, one burst at a time, smooth and controlled. His pulse hammered in his throat. His breathing slowed to stay focused.

“Five meters per second,” Val updated. “Twenty meters.”

“Adjusting…” Jimin’s voice barely registered above a whisper.

Koah leaned over the console, white-knuckled, tracking their positions in real time. “C’mon…”

“Four-point-three,” Val called. “Four-point-oh. Distance: fifteen.”

Below them, the planet turned slowly. Its burnished red hue cast long reflections on their EVA suits, the light catching on every scuff, every scar.

“Eight meters,” Jimin’s voice crackled through the comms, low and calm, but clipped at the edges with strain.

He reached out, fingers extended through the thick press of his glove, closing the gap between them one meter at a time.

“Six,” he said.

Y/N blinked hard behind her visor. Her eyes stung—part windburn, part tears, part adrenaline tearing through her like a lightning strike that wouldn’t end. She was trembling, though whether it was from cold or exhaustion or raw emotion, she couldn’t tell.

“Four meters.”

The world seemed to hold its breath.

“Contact,” she murmured, the word barely audible.

Their hands met in the vacuum.

His glove locked around hers, firm and unyielding. The jolt spun them slightly off-axis. They drifted together, a slow tumble in the dark. Jimin adjusted with practiced precision, a single controlled burst from his MMU. The movement steadied them—brought them face to face, visor to visor, until their helmets bumped softly.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

She didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. The relief hit her like decompression—sudden, overwhelming, silent. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure it was leaking into the comms. And when she looked at him—really looked—her breath caught.

Jimin. Real. Alive. Close enough to touch. The first human face she’d seen in what felt like a lifetime. His presence shattered the isolation that had wrapped itself around her bones. For a long moment, she just stared at him, eyes wide, heart aching.

Then, laughter bubbled out of her—ragged, broken, but real. A laugh of disbelief. Of survival. Of something like joy.

“You were right,” she said, her voice cracking. “About not working for Marshall.”

Jimin’s brow lifted in surprise. “Oh yeah?”

“Guy had terrible taste in music.”

His laugh—quiet and genuine—filtered through the comms. That soft, human sound broke something in her and mended it at the same time.

“I told you,” he said, grinning. “No one should be allowed to play yacht rock during critical ops.”

Their boots connected, magnetically latching to stabilize. He was still holding her hand, and she didn’t let go.

At Mission Control, the moment contact was confirmed, silence exploded into chaos. A wave of sound crashed through the control room—a crescendo of cheers, gasps, sobs. Years of calculations, failures, and sleepless nights had built to this single, miraculous connection. And now, it had happened.

People leapt from their chairs. Engineers shouted and hugged, some spinning in circles, others frozen in disbelief. The weight of relief—of impossible odds defied—hit them like gravity finally turned back on.

In one corner, a systems analyst wept openly, his face in his hands. Beside him, a propulsion tech laughed so hard she doubled over. All around them, joy unfolded like a chain reaction, uncontained and raw.

From the overhead speakers, Jimin’s voice rang clear, calm despite everything:
“I got her.”

And that was it. The phrase that set the world ablaze.

Across the globe, the news spread like solar flare.

In cafés and living rooms and subway stations, screens lit up with the headline: Y/N Rescued. Starfire Mission: Success.

On Earth, people poured into the streets. Flags waved. Strangers embraced. Horns blared in traffic and fireworks erupted in cities that hadn’t planned any celebration, but lit the skies anyway.

In the heart of Capital City on Aguerran Prime, the response was seismic. Giant screens lit up skyscrapers, projecting the image of two astronauts suspended against the cosmos. The crowd erupted. Music blared from rooftops. It was New Year’s, the Olympics, and a national holiday rolled into one—but better. This wasn’t just a celebration of survival. It was proof that the universe, in all its vast indifference, had blinked—just long enough for them to pull off a miracle.

On Taurus 1, cheers echoed through stone corridors older than Earth itself. In a quiet square in an old district, an elderly man who had once worked on early EVA suits cried openly as the footage played. A group of children surrounded him, pointing at the stars on screen and clapping with wild abandon.

In that moment, the universe felt smaller. Gentler. More connected than it had ever been.

Aboard the Starfire, the airlock sequence initiated with a soft, mechanical hiss.

Inside, the silence returned—but it was not empty. It pulsed with tension.

Jimin guided Y/N through the process step by step, his movements sharp, deliberate. His breathing was shallow now, not from exertion, but from the staggering realization of what they’d just done.

Y/N’s body sagged in his grip. Her limbs moved sluggishly, her face pale behind the helmet. The EVA suit had kept her alive, but it hadn’t protected her from fatigue. Her pulse fluttered at her throat like a trapped bird.

“Jung, prep the med bay,” Jimin called into the comms, his voice clipped but steady. “We’re bringing her in. Everyone else—Airlock Two.”

On the flight deck, Koah, Val, and Armin didn’t wait for the full order to come through. As soon as Jimin’s voice cut across the comm— “She’s in. Inner seal holding.” —they were already moving.

No discussion. No gear. Just instinct.

They took off down the corridor at a dead sprint, boots thudding hard against the metal flooring, echoing through the narrow ship like heartbeats too big for their chests. The corridors blurred past in streaks of cold steel and overhead lighting. Turn, straightaway, turn again. They knew the route by muscle memory, but this time it felt longer—like space itself had stretched the halls.

At the last junction, Val nearly slid into the bulkhead, catching herself with a palm against the wall before pushing off again. Koah was just ahead, eyes locked forward. Armin, quieter than the others but just as fast, matched them stride for stride. No one said anything.

There was nothing left to say until they saw her.

They reached the observation deck seconds later and slammed to a halt in unison, chests heaving, adrenaline crashing hard through their veins. The reinforced glass fogged instantly from their breath, still cooling from the run.

Beyond it, the airlock lit pale blue. The outer door had sealed. And suspended inside, between the void and safety, was Y/N.

Jimin held her upright, one arm braced tight around her torso. Her limbs dangled like a marionette cut from its strings—slack, heavy, unmoving. But her helmet display still flickered. Her vitals were registering. She was breathing.

Val’s hand smacked the glass without thinking—an involuntary, almost desperate gesture—fingers splayed wide as if she could reach through. Her knuckles turned white.

Armin didn’t move. His face had gone hollow, lips parted, a flicker of disbelief tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not joy. Not yet. Just the raw, suspended terror that this might still go sideways.

Koah leaned forward slowly, lowering his head until his forehead touched the glass. He closed his eyes, let out a single, unsteady breath.

No one spoke.

They didn’t have to.

She was here.

The inner airlock door opened with a soft thunk as pressure equalized, followed by the gentle hiss of recirculating air. The lights adjusted.

Y/N’s knees buckled the second the seal completed. Her body gave out with no ceremony, no warning—just a complete surrender to gravity and fatigue. Jimin caught her under the arms and eased her down, kneeling with her as she folded into him.

Her head lolled forward. Face pale, lips dry. Her skin had that faint, paper-thin translucency that came from months of low oxygen and high stress. She looked... hollow. But she was there.

Alive.

The door to the chamber slid open, and the trio spilled in fast, voices colliding with the walls in breathless urgency.

“Y/N—hey—hey, we’ve got you—”

“Jesus, hold her head—”

“Is she conscious?”

They knelt around her, crowding close without hesitation. Their hands moved with focus but reverence—steady but careful. They took the weight of her body like it was something sacred, every movement precise. Koah slipped an arm under her shoulders. Armin supported her back. Val reached for the clasps of her helmet, fingers fumbling before settling into rhythm.

“She’s heavier than she looks,” Armin muttered, not complaining, just surprised. His voice was thick, caught somewhere between awe and grief.

“She’s got months of trauma packed in there,” Val said, her voice tight. “That stuff weighs a ton.”

Y/N stirred.

It was barely more than a twitch—a flutter of her eyelids and the softest, cracked breath—but they all froze.

Then she spoke.

“Hi, guys.”

The words rasped out like sandpaper, rough-edged and barely above a whisper. Her lips curved into the ghost of a smile—lopsided, exhausted, but unmistakably hers.

Koah choked on a laugh that turned almost immediately into a sound dangerously close to a sob. Val looked away quickly, blinking hard. Armin just shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

“Oh, hey, French Fry,” Val said after a pause, her voice quivering. “Been a while.”

Koah sniffed and offered a crooked grin. “Yeah. What, you get lost?”

Y/N tilted her head slowly, her eyes barely able to stay open. “Just took the scenic route.”

Val managed a weak laugh. “Scenic route through hell.”

“Pretty much.”

Armin, still kneeling, reached to loosen the helmet collar. It gave way with a hiss, and as he eased it off, an invisible wall broke.

The smell hit instantly.

“Oh, damn—” Armin recoiled, covering his face with the crook of his arm. “God, Y/N…”

“Yeah,” Koah coughed, grimacing. “That’s... that’s not human. That’s a whole new element.”

Y/N winced, but even that looked like too much effort. “Didn’t exactly pack perfume,” she said, her voice hoarse but holding steady.

Val waved a hand in front of her nose, her expression torn between disgust and laughter. “Y/N, we love you, but... you smell like a dead body.”

“That’s fair.” Y/N let her head fall back into Koah’s shoulder. “Been marinating in my own failure for eighteen months.”

For a beat, the chamber filled with the sound of tired, grateful laughter. Not joyous. Not yet. But real.

Then something in her expression changed—just slightly. The edges softened, the humor falling away like ash from a burned-out log.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

They went still again.

Y/N’s eyes glistened. “I shouldn’t have left. Not like that. Not for a contract. Not for... them.”

No jokes this time. No sarcasm. Just silence.

Val leaned in first, slipping her arm around Y/N’s shoulders, pressing her forehead to the side of her helmet.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “You’re here now.”

Koah followed, wrapping an arm around both of them.

Armin didn’t hesitate. He leaned in too, awkward but firm, his hand resting over hers where it trembled in her lap.

They held her like that—clumsy, off-balance, elbows in the wrong places and armor pressing too hard against ribs—but none of it mattered.

She was back.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

He crouched low behind the twisted trunk of a wind-battered pine, its bark scarred by years of storms. The sharp scent of crushed needles filled his lungs, grounding him. Around his shoulders hung a makeshift cloak, frayed at the hem and stiff with dirt and sweat. It barely kept the cold out, but it was enough. His beard scratched against the collar as he shifted, eyes locked on the clearing ahead.

Jungkook didn’t move. Not even to breathe. The air was still, and in that stillness, time stretched. He didn’t know how long he’d been tracking the deer—an hour? Maybe more. Up here in the mountains, the days bled into each other, a fog of wind, hunger, and silence. He hadn’t spoken to another person in weeks. Not since crossing the ridgeline from the valley, leaving the last trace of civilization behind.

His hair had grown long, knotted in places from nights spent sleeping with his head against tree trunks or curled in shallow caves. If anyone saw him now—mud-caked, eyes sharp from vigilance and wear—he doubted they’d recognize him as the man he used to be. That boy was long gone, buried beneath layers of calloused muscle and survival instinct.

The deer stepped cautiously into view, its ears twitching, nostrils flaring at the wind. It was young. Slender. Beautiful, even. Part of him hesitated, a quiet flicker of guilt threading through his chest. But hunger spoke louder.

He raised the bow slowly, breath held. His fingers, stiff from the cold, found the worn fletching of the arrow and drew it back until the tension hummed along the string. His eyes narrowed.

Then—release.

The arrow struck with a dull, final thud. The deer jolted, stumbled a few feet, then dropped. The forest held its breath.

Jungkook stood, lowered the bow, and approached carefully. The deer’s chest rose once, then stopped. He knelt beside it, placed a hand on its flank.

“Thank you,” he murmured, almost unconsciously.

He reached for the knife at his side, quick and practiced, and ended what was left of its pain.

Then—he heard it.

Not in the trees. Not behind him. In him.

At first, it was barely more than a breath of wind in his ear. So faint he thought it was the trees whispering, the way they sometimes did when the weather turned.

But then it came again. Clearer.

“Where did you get your eyes?”

He went still, the knife frozen in his grip.

His body tensed. He scanned the woods—but there was no movement, no footprints, no shadows slipping through the branches. Just the quiet hush of pines and the fresh silence of the kill.

Then again—closer this time.

“Where did you get your eyes?”

It wasn’t a voice made of sound. Not really. It didn’t vibrate the air; it vibrated him. Deep in his bones. Deep in the part of his mind that still remembered how to fear things he couldn’t see.

Jungkook staggered back a step, hand instinctively reaching for the blade at his belt.

“Who’s there?” he asked, voice low and raw.

Silence.

“Where did you get your eyes?”

A memory dressed as a voice. He could almost hear the lit of her voice, her scowl, smell her sweat while he was restrained.

His throat tightened. He felt the world stutter.

And then the forest melted.

Suddenly, he wasn’t in the trees. He was back in the flickering fluorescent corridor of Butcher Bay.

The air reeked of sweat and disinfectant, the distant clang of a cell door echoing off concrete walls. He could feel the texture of it under his boots—the grimed, cracked floor, the grit that never left no matter how many times it was mopped. Chains rattled somewhere behind him.

The lights overhead flickered once.

He blinked.

He was standing outside Block 9, back pressed to the cool stone wall, just as he had so many times before. He remembered the voices in the dark, the muttered threats, the laughter with no warmth. He remembered him—the preacher.

Tall. Steady. A flicker of something in his eyes that nobody could quite name. He spoke rarely, but when he did, people listened. He wasn’t like the others.

The preacher had told him once, in a whisper beneath the noise: “Eyes are a gift. Use them like you earned them.”

Jungkook had never asked what he meant. He hadn’t dared.

But now, standing in the memory, he understood.

The forest returned in a blink.

Jungkook swayed slightly, the weight of it still pressing against his chest. The deer lay still, the blood soaking into the damp earth beneath it. The wind had shifted—cooler now. Carried the smell of rain and something older. He closed his eyes, drawing in a lungful of pine, trying to clear the scent of stone and steel from his mind.

His hand trembled slightly as he cleaned the blade.

Whatever that voice had been—memory, madness, something else—it had stirred something he’d tried hard to bury. Butcher Bay wasn’t gone. It hadn’t faded. It just waited in the cracks, ready to bleed through.

He slung the deer over his shoulders with a grunt. The weight wasn’t unbearable, but it was more than just meat. It was a reminder. Of hunger. Of survival. Of debts not quite paid.

He turned back toward camp.

Each step forward was a small act of defiance. Against the memories. Against the fear. Against the question that still echoed in the dark corners of his thoughts.

Where did you get your eyes?

He didn’t answer this time.

He just kept walking, boots crunching softly over the forest floor, until the trees swallowed him again—one man beneath the vast canopy, hunted by memories but still, somehow, moving forward.

Chapter 11: You Made Three Mistakes

The planet Virexus III was dying. The sky streaked with fire and ash so thick it clung to your breath and stayed there. The equator had been turned inside out by the bombardments, carved open until the crust bled molten rivers that glowed orange against the soot-blackened ground. Once, the defense grid had lit up the horizon like a net of stars. Now it sputtered in uneven bursts, more like a dying animal than a weapon system.

Below that flickering canopy, across land that had once held trees and flowing water, the Necromongers moved. They came in tight, unwavering lines, every step placed with mechanical precision. Their armor looked like it had grown out of some deep place in the earth—slick, dark, etched with symbols whose meanings had been buried with the last of the people who wrote them. There was no sound but the wind and the low hum of their approach. They arrived the way collapse arrives—gradually, then completely.

At the front of the formation was Commander Taehyung Kim. He stood there, the black of his armor dulled by burns and blood, some old, some recent. You could see streaks where fire had kissed metal, where chemicals had chewed through plating and stopped just short of the man beneath. His helmet—sleek, red-eyed—swept across the field in slow, deliberate arcs. He was watching what was left of the enemy’s last desperate stand, though calling it a fortress was generous.

Behind him, his soldiers held position, weapons ready but not raised. They were already prepared for what came next; they didn’t need to be told. Belief, in their order, wasn’t something soft. It was something sharp. Something that cut.

“Channel three,” Taehyung said in the comms. “Target grid delta-five. Focus the bunker lines. Then breach.”

“Confirmed, Commander. Scouting reports suggest—”

“Suggestions are for the living,” Taehyung cut in, each syllable shaped like it had an edge. “We are not among them. Burn them.”

Artillery sang and the sky answered back with violence. Shells arced in blazing trails before slamming into the wreckage ahead. The ground exploded cracking open and crumbling under the weight of repeated, precision fire. Walls folded in on themselves. Stone split like dry bone. Any screams were swallowed by the noise before they could become anything more than vibrations in the dust.

One of the younger purifiers at Taehyung’s side turned toward him, tense with anticipation, hands tight at his sides. “There are still many inside,” he said. “May I go in once it’s breached? Personally?”

Taehyung didn’t move much—just tilted his head slightly, enough to make the purifier freeze. “Yes. But leave the ones who kneel.”

The purifier twitched. “They’re breeders.”

“They’re clay ,” Taehyung replied. His voice never changed. It sounded the way scorched earth might, if it could speak. “And clay has uses . We don’t waste what can still be shaped.”

The purifier didn’t argue, but his fingers kept moving.

The breach team moved out. They stepped over corpses, through rubble, past fire that licked at the edges of shattered walls. Their blades stayed low and clean, sheened with that cold, mirror finish. The soldiers moved like a single body. They didn’t speak, didn’t glance at one another. There was no need. They were past needing words.

Behind them, Taehyung followed. His posture never shifted. He didn’t duck or flinch as debris crumbled from above, didn’t even glance at the flames eating through the beams to his left. Fire didn’t concern him. Nor did the smoke. Nor did the bones crushed underfoot. He walked as though death had already happened to him once, and he’d simply decided to keep going.

They entered what had once been the outer barracks. It was a mess of broken metal and exposed piping, the walls collapsed inward, and fire scorched every inch of the room. From the shadows, resistance came—not in waves, not in any organized push, but in twitching, desperate ambushes. Gunfire spat from the far corridor, wild and undisciplined. One of the breach team fell, armor catching the burst but caving inward, smoke coiling from the puncture. No one broke formation. They didn’t pause, didn’t reach for him. That wasn’t the way.

A purifier to Taehyung’s left peeled off, quick as breath, ducking low under a collapsing beam and reappearing behind the shooter like smoke becoming solid. There was no flare of vengeance, no unnecessary cruelty. Just a blade across the neck, a hand on the shoulder to lower the body silently, then rejoining the line.

Another defender burst from cover, armored in scorched red, eyes wild behind a cracked visor. He came in swinging, a broad plasma axe powered by panic and nothing else. He didn’t make it two steps before Taehyung moved. He tilted to one side, let the swing pass through empty air, and turned his body in the same movement, catching the man’s weapon-arm at the elbow and snapping it inward with a sound like wet sticks breaking. Before the scream could form, Taehyung pushed his blade up through the bottom of the man’s chin. A clean kill. Gravity pulled the corpse down before Taehyung had even fully turned away.

Around him, the Necromongers advanced. The defenders, what few remained, tried to hold position near the central staircase. They were ragged, scorched, coughing into bloody cloth, some wielding weapons too damaged to fire more than once. And yet they still fought, or tried to. Some even charged. Taehyung respected that, in his own way. But respect didn’t mean mercy.

One came at him, a woman wrapped in the remains of a command uniform, face twisted not in fear, but grief. She didn’t scream. She just ran, holding a rusted blade in both hands like a promise she hadn’t managed to keep. Taehyung let her get close. He didn’t even raise his weapon at first. Then, with a small step and a twist of his torso, he brought the hilt of his blade into her gut, hard and low, folding her forward without spilling a drop of blood. His other hand caught the back of her neck, brought her down, and ended her.

Every breath of the fight was efficient. No theatrics. No indulgence. The Necromongers fought like engineers demolishing a building—precise, practiced, inevitable.

A group of defenders—maybe five, maybe six—tried to regroup near a fractured column. They formed a half-circle, backs to the wall, weapons up. One of them had a repeater rifle, its barrel glowing red-hot from overuse. Another was clutching a sidearm in both hands, eyes wide and wet. Taehyung signaled with two fingers, a flick of the wrist. Three purifiers peeled off, flanking the defenders with the practiced ease of vultures circling wounded prey.

One defender managed a shot—just one—before a purifier’s knee broke their wrist, and another blade opened their chest from collarbone to hip. By the time the smoke cleared, it was over.

Taehyung stepped over the corpses without hesitation. One of them gurgled, half-alive. He stopped only long enough to end it with a downward strike, the tip of his sword splitting the man’s sternum with a sound like cracking ice.

Out of the wreckage, another figure emerged. Older armor, ceremonial even, layered with symbols painted in old blood. A commander, or a priest. Maybe both. He raised his blade overhead, shouting something in a dialect Taehyung almost remembered from another planet they’d conquered before. He did not know what the man was saying, and it mattered little to him.

Taehyung didn’t flinch. He stepped slightly to one side, let the blade pass over his shoulder, and caught the man around the throat. The blade went in low, under the ribs, angled upward toward the heart.

“You might make it to the Underverse,” Taehyung said, voice quiet. “Die quiet.”

He held the man for a moment, letting the breath leave him in pieces. Then he let go. The body hit the ground with the soft thud. Taehyung kept walking.

By nightfall, the planet was theirs.

On the horizon, casting its shadow over the ruins like a scar across the land, stood the Conquest Icon. It rose obscenely high, out of proportion with everything around it, a jagged tower that seemed to insult the very idea of design. It didn’t reach for the sky so much as stab into it, like it was trying to wound something no longer there. At a distance, it looked almost simple—just a massive spire, black and sharp. But up close, it unraveled that illusion.

The surface shimmered. It was obsidian, but not dead stone—slick, warm in a way that suggested movement beneath. Jagged veins glowed beneath its skin, red like cauterized wounds, pulsing in irregular rhythms that felt too organic for something this massive. It radiated heat. The base of the structure had ruptured the ground outward in a spiderweb of fractures, and from those cracks poured slow leaks of smoke and steam that carried the stench of scorched metal and old rot. Everything around it was dead. The ash fell constantly, not snowing but drifting, heavy and warm. It coated everything, filled mouths and eyes and lungs. The sky above had given up on being blue. It was the color of bruised metal now, thick with smoke and dust, and whatever sun still burned on the far side of the planet no longer dared show its face here.

At the base of the Icon stood Lord Marshal, unmoving, unreadable, and absolute. His armor was layered in matte-black plates that caught no light. Deep gouges marked the surface—scars of battles no one spoke of anymore. The helm that concealed his face was a thing of mythic ugliness: three sculpted visages stacked atop one another, each locked in a different expression—rage at the top, contempt in the middle, and judgment at the bottom. It was unclear whether the faces were meant to be gods.

Even the air didn’t want to touch him. It shifted subtly around his form, as if the atmosphere itself refused to brush too close.

Standing beside him was Taehyung Kim—decades younger than the Marshal, but still wearing the same quiet, immovable stillness. His was the stillness of someone who no longer expected the world to surprise him, who moved through aftermaths rather than battlefields. His hand hovered close to his weapon, not from tension, but because it belonged there now, like a limb he’d grown used to keeping ready. The gesture wasn’t protective in a traditional sense; it was a reflex—muscle memory forged by repetition, by years of standing exactly like this beside the man who never needed guarding, but always had it.

His helmet turned slightly toward the Marshal, voice low and gravel-worn from the ash in the air. “You’ll pardon me, my Lord,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But there’s nothing left. We’ve done what we came for.”

The Lord Marshal didn’t move, not even to acknowledge the words. He never did until he meant to. And when his voice came, it didn’t rise. “The dead must be reminded that they chose this.”

Taehyung’s jaw shifted behind the visor. His lips twitched. “Even in death, they have to kneel? Doesn’t that seem... redundant?”

The Marshal turned his head just slightly. “Submission isn’t a phase,” he said. “It is the root. The foundation of who we are, Commander Kim. What we offer isn’t punishment. It’s clarity. The production, as you have called it, is not for the living. It is for the memory of the living. They must know—down to their bones—that we gave them a choice. That they answered, and this is what their answer earned.”

Taehyung dropped his gaze for a moment just long enough to hold his tongue. When he spoke again, the words came slowly. “Of course. Spoken like the gods you’ve replaced.”

Off to the side, half in shadow, the Purifier stood. His robes moved like smoke, not flowing with the wind but against it. His mask was smooth, blank at a distance, but up close you could see it was etched with symbols that pulsed faintly like the Icon.

“ Faith is a contagion,” he said quietly, voice soft and close, even though he stood meters away.  “And we are the cure.”

Taehyung turned his head slightly with interest. There was something like humor in his tone, dry and worn. “Of course. I did not mean to suggest otherwise.”

They turned together—Marshal, Taehyung, and the Purifier—and began the slow ascent toward the Basilica.

It wasn’t a structure in the traditional sense. It didn’t rest on the earth; it hovered, suspended above the ruins by forces not visible, only felt. The air beneath it trembled with a low hum that vibrated through the bones, a presence more than a sound. Its steps weren’t stone, but metal, each one engraved with names that no longer belonged to anyone. Cities. Dynasties. Bloodlines. Ghosts of places that had once dared to call themselves eternal.

They moved in silence. The Marshal, unwavering, his steps thick and heavy. The Purifier, a whisper as his feet tapped the ground, robes trailing. And Taehyung, balanced perfectly between them, every movement taut with discipline. If Marshal was prophecy and the Purifier doctrine, Taehyung was execution.

The wind rose as they climbed, tearing through the skeletal remains of what had once been a city—snapping rusted beams still desperate to stand, whipping broken signage into the air like leaves. Ash moved with it, not falling but circulating, swept into slow spirals that climbed toward the sky and dissolved against the dying light. It caught in the folds of armor, settled in the seams of helmets, coated the stair beneath their feet in a soft, weightless gray that muted even the sound of their boots. Far below, Virexus III lay quiet at last. The screaming had stopped hours ago, choked off by fire and the finality of orbital bombardment. Now there was only the howl of the wind and the low, mechanical hum of the Basilica above, vibrating just enough to feel in the chest.

Taehyung spoke into that silence, his voice low but clear. “Where do we go next, my Lord?” he asked. “There are whispers of the Helion System. Shall we bring the Underverse there?”

There was no urgency in the question, no ambition hiding behind the words. It was honest. Devout. The kind of question asked not out of curiosity, but from the quiet hunger to be useful. Taehyung wasn’t looking for orders—he was looking for permission. For purpose. There was a reverence to the way he said the name: Helion. Not as a place, but as a destination. A target worthy of judgment. A world that had not yet understood its place.

The Lord Marshal said nothing at first. He kept walking, his pace unchanged, his attention fixed on some invisible point beyond the storm-wracked horizon. He never rushed answers. When he did speak, it came like something permanent being carved into the world. “The Helion System will kneel. All of it. The question is which throat to crush first.”

Behind them, the Purifier stepped forward without a sound, robes shifting in the wind like smoke given direction. He didn’t raise his voice; he never needed to. His words carried weight not by volume but by conviction. “Helion Prime is their heart,” he said, as if reciting scripture. “The eldest of the worlds. The seat of their line. Strike there, and the rest will wither in grief.”

He let the thought linger before continuing. “But Helion Three feeds them. It is steel and flame. Kill it, and the others starve by degrees.”

Taehyung nodded, slow and deliberate, each option settling in his mind like stone tablets. He treated the words not as strategy, but as liturgy—choices offered by the divine, not tacticians. “I will go where I am needed,” he said, voice quiet but unshakable. “Every world belongs to the Underverse. Whether they accept it or not is irrelevant. Let them cry. Let them cling to what they’ve built. They have not earned it. They have not bled for it.”

He turned slightly, casting his gaze toward the sky, where the smoke thinned and the stars began to glimmer through the haze. “We will teach them.”

The Basilica trembled beneath them as they reached the summit. Not violently, but with the slow pressure of something vast and conscious beneath their feet. The structure hovered above the desolation like a sentence suspended mid-air, waiting for a final word. Below, the Conquest Icon remained rooted in the shattered crust of Virexus, its hollow mouth gaping open, still drawing down the weight of memory and resistance into its bottomless core. There was no movement in the ruins now. No bodies trying to flee, no cries for help. Only stillness. Only what was left after hope stopped meaning anything.

Ash drifted around them in slow eddies, the smell of scorched metal and vaporized flesh still thick in the air. Taehyung inhaled it deeply, not with pleasure exactly, but with recognition. This was what the end smelled like. Not rot, not decay—this wasn’t the aftermath of entropy. It was the product of intention. Of order. And to him, that made it beautiful.

Marshal stepped forward, stopping near the edge of the platform, his gaze still fixed far beyond what could be seen. He didn’t look down at Virexus anymore. There was nothing to see there. What remained was only echo. His mind was already in Helion, turning over its defenses, weighing its pride against its future humiliation. “Prime is their soul,” he said, more to himself than the others. “But Three is their breath. We will take both. It is only a matter of how deeply we want them to suffer.”

The Purifier said nothing more. He simply stood there, motionless in his rune-laced robes, a figure that looked more like a warning than a man. His role was not to argue, not even to advise. He had spoken. Now he would wait. When the time came, he would cleanse what remained. He always did.

Taehyung stood beside them, still and straight, and felt a quiet fire kindling in his chest—not rage, not cruelty, but conviction. He didn’t question what would come. He didn’t worry about his place in it. His faith wasn’t performative. It wasn’t loud. It was something deeper, grown inward, woven into bone and memory. He had followed the doctrine his entire life, and when that wasn’t enough, he’d carved it into his own skin beneath the armor—each phrase a vow, each scar a chapter. He didn’t serve for glory. He served because he believed. Because submission was not just the end—it was the reward.

He looked to the Marshal. “If it pleases you, Commander, I will take Helion Prime. I will bury its machines in the bodies of its laborers. I will break its fields with the bones of its defenders. And when the last survivor kneels, I will remind them that mercy is not the same as survival. It is a gift. A gift we do not have to give.”

The Marshal didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His silence was more binding than any oath. Taehyung hadn’t spoken for approval—he had spoken to express devotion. The order would come. When it did, he would be ready.

Above them, the Basilica’s siege engines began to stir. Energy snapped across the sky like distant lightning, dancing between relay towers and charging coils. The heavens groaned in response, and the stars, once still, began to flicker more urgently. They were watching now. They knew what came next.

Taehyung looked up—not to the sun, which had vanished behind blackened clouds—but to the constellations barely visible through the haze. A scattered array of stars, dim but distinct, their alignment unnatural, their presence heavy. These were not stars in the usual sense. They didn’t shimmer—they pulsed. They were not beacons of life. They were signs. Markers.

To the faithful, they were the map of the Underverse.

They hadn’t always been there. They were young by cosmic standards, violent in birth and impossible by science. But they existed. And to those who served, they meant everything. They weren’t lights. They were destinations. The Underverse wasn’t a legend. It was real. A kingdom beyond death, not of peace, but of silence so pure it became sacred. Not everyone could reach it. Only those who crossed the Threshold—those judged worthy after death, those who had given everything.

It was said the Marshals had crossed. They had stood at the edge of existence, where the known became unknowable, and walked through. They had passed into the Underverse and returned, different—less like men and more like stone monuments carved by forces older than time. The Marshal standing beside Taehyung was one of them, or so the doctrine claimed. And Taehyung believed it—not because he was told to, but because everything about the man made the alternative unthinkable. He didn’t move through the world like others did. The world adjusted around him.

Taehyung had never seen the Threshold, but he imagined it constantly. Not as a gate or a blaze of celestial light, but as a place stripped bare of illusion—a crucible, maybe. Something that burned everything false away. To cross wasn’t to die. It was to be torn down and reassembled without error, rebuilt into the shape you were always meant to be. Only the worthy made it through. Only those who had been judged clean. Not innocent—never that—but clean in purpose. Clear in conviction.

And Taehyung wanted it. Not for recognition. Not even for power. But for belonging. The Underverse wasn’t a reward. It was a home for those who had proved, again and again, that they deserved no lesser one. He had carved his way toward that horizon with every world he’d helped break, every city turned to dust, every breath of resistance he’d crushed beneath his boot. Not out of malice. That wasn’t the point. He didn’t hate those he killed. He barely thought of them. They were obstacles. Steps. Necessary erasures on the road to something eternal.

He stood at the edge of the Basilica’s platform and looked skyward, beyond the blackened clouds, toward stars that flickered like dying embers. “I will follow wherever the stars darken next,” he said. “Let Helion be first, or last—it makes no difference. The path winds how it will. All roads, in time, lead to the Threshold.”

The wind stirred around him again, sharp and dry, threading through the exposed framework of what had once been Virexus’s proud cities. A low, bitter sound. The air carried dust and soot and the final breath of a planet that had nothing left to give. Beneath their boots, the platform vibrated faintly, alive with stored energy. Not instability—anticipation. The Basilica was waking. Preparing to lift once more into the stars and deliver judgment to another system that still mistook defiance for sovereignty. Another place with banners and hymns and parliaments that believed they mattered. Another name waiting to be buried.

The Marshal didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. He tilted his head just slightly, and that was enough. It was the kind of gesture only understood by those already within the circle. Taehyung didn’t need words. Approval wasn’t something handed down. It was felt. Earned. And that small nod from the Marshal—silent, eternal—meant everything he needed it to.

He reached down, tightening the strap across his chest, adjusting the angle of the blade on his back. Ritual, mostly. The weapon was always ready, always sharp. But the act mattered. There was still blood to spill. Still proof to carve into the skin of the galaxy. He could feel the hunger in the steel. The next trial awaited.

You keep what you kill. It wasn’t just law—it was the cornerstone of everything. Kill with purpose, and what was theirs becomes yours: their titles, their lands, their legacy. It wasn’t vengeance. It wasn’t cruelty. It was order. Dominion as divine function. Every enemy extinguished was not just a death—it was a correction. A submission written in blood. And with each one, he came closer.

Closer to something beyond mere command. Beyond flesh. Closer to the Threshold.

And when the weight of what he’d done was finally enough—when the blood on his hands outweighed what any mortal name could carry—he would stand before it. The veil. The test. The silent place beyond breath.

And he would cross.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The first thing Jungkook registers is the cold—not just the sting of it on his skin, but the way it seeps in, deep and slow, until it wraps itself around his spine and settles in his bones. It’s not a clean, crisp kind of cold. It’s older than that, heavier, like something with memory and teeth. It doesn’t simply chill—it presses. It burrows. It knows him. There’s a weight to it that feels personal, almost vindictive, as if the cold has been waiting for him all this time, just so it can remind him what he's lost.

For a second, he thinks it’s just another morning in the long stretch of grayed-out days he's been surviving. Another silent wake-up in the same collapsed world. But something is wrong. Off. The air is too thin, too sharp, each breath slicing down his throat like glass. The silence isn't the usual kind, either—it doesn’t feel like the stillness of solitude. It feels staged. Held. Like the world itself is bracing, waiting for something to break. His heart gives a stutter in his chest—not panic, not fear. Recognition.

This isn’t waking up. This is something else entirely.

There’s no sluggish climb out of sleep, no gentle confusion. Just a sudden, almost violent snap into awareness. His senses feel too sharp, like he’s standing barefoot on shattered memories. Everything around him pulses with unreality—the ground beneath his boots flexes and breathes as if alive, the horizon blurs at the edges like a painting burning at the corners. It’s a place his mind tells him can’t be real, and yet his body disagrees, reacting to every strange detail with grim familiarity.

And then he hears her.

Her voice doesn’t echo. It cuts. “Still running, huh?”

He freezes. One second. Two. Long enough to lie to himself, to pretend he didn’t hear it. But the moment's already passed. It’s her. He knows it the way he knows his own name, the way pain recognizes its origin.

He turns, slowly, unwillingly, like gravity’s gotten heavier all of a sudden. There she is. Y/N. Sitting on a jagged rise of stone like she’s been waiting for him, like this place is hers, and maybe it is. Her features are too defined, sharper than memory allows—too vivid, like someone rebuilt her from fragments of grief and stubbornness. Her eyes catch whatever light this dream-place offers, bright with something that might be recognition, or accusation, or maybe both.

The sight of her knocks the breath from his lungs. His stomach coils. His hands fist at his sides until the gloves creak. He tells himself it’s rage—that he hates her for leaving, for dying, for being the thing that won’t let him move on. But that’s not the truth, and he knows it. The truth is older and harder. The truth is, he still wants her. Even now. Especially now.

“Are you going to keep ignoring me, Jungkook?” she asks. There’s a tease in her tone, light and easy, but beneath it—something else. Something heavier.

He says nothing. He doesn’t trust his voice. He turns away instead, but she follows, her footsteps light and constant, like a memory you can’t shake. That was always her way—never letting go, not when it mattered. Especially not then.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” she says, voice closer now, with a bite under the softness.

His jaw tightens. He can’t do this. Not in this place that feels like memory carved into madness. Every breath he takes cuts deeper, his body caught between longing and resistance. She’s not real. She can’t be. She’s just a trick his mind plays when he’s too tired to fight it off. And yet—she feels real. Real enough to hurt.

“How long’s it been?” she asks.

He swallows hard. “Long enough,” he mutters. It’s a lie, of course. The kind you repeat until it stops feeling like one. It hasn’t been long enough. It never will be.

She steps closer. He feels the warmth of her now, somehow—feels the way it pricks at his skin, familiar and unwelcome all at once. When her fingers brush against his arm, he flinches—not from fear, but from the sudden pull in his chest. The instinct to turn into her, to bury his face in her shoulder and let it all go. But he doesn’t move. He can’t. He knows how this ends. If he gives in, she’ll disappear, and he’ll be left choking on her absence again.

“I died for you,” she says, soft. No accusation, no anger. Just fact. And it cuts deeper than a scream ever could.

He closes his eyes, breath ragged. “I didn’t ask you to,” he snaps, but the words fracture halfway out of him.

She laughs—quiet and sad and tired in a way he understands too well. “You didn’t have to.”

And now it’s all too close. The way she used to sound. The way her presence wraps around him, uninvited but irresistible. He wants to touch her. He wants to run. He does neither.

“You don’t belong here,” she says after a long moment, softer now.

He laughs, bitter and low. “I’m already here,” he says. “You know better than anyone I don’t belong anywhere, Frenchie.”

That old nickname hangs in the air like the smoke from something still burning. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. He knows she’s leaving—can feel the shape of her presence begin to unravel, like the dream is collapsing now that it's said what it came to say. He doesn’t turn around. He won’t. Not again.

When she’s gone—truly gone, when the air feels thinner and colder and far too empty—his legs give out. He hits the ground hard, knees cracking against the frozen dirt, hands clutching at nothing. His breath comes in short, shallow gasps, like he’s drowning in air. He tells himself it was just a dream. Another trick of memory and exhaustion. But the ache in his chest says otherwise.

He wakes like someone coming up for air in a lake that’s already frozen over. His chest lurches, lungs fighting against the cold like they’re trying to convince him this is still living. The cold doesn’t just touch him—it owns him. It lives in the space between his joints, behind his eyes, deep in the hollows carved out by things he never talks about. It’s the kind of cold that doesn’t arrive. It waits. It remembers.

The cave feels smaller somehow, like the stone walls have crept in during the night, pressing closer inch by inch, as if trying to smother him in his sleep. The air is dense with silence—not quiet, but silence with weight, with presence. The kind that watches. He shifts beneath the tangle of furs and hides that should keep him warm, but don’t. They never really do. The cold is inside now, and no amount of layering or movement will drive it out.

Faint light spills in from the cave mouth. Not sunlight—just a pale, half-hearted imitation of it. The kind that gives nothing but outlines. It casts the world in grayscale, bleaching what little warmth remains. He sits up slowly, muscles stiff and slow to respond, like they’re just as reluctant to face the day as he is. Every joint protests. Every breath tastes faintly of stone and old fire. He listens—for wind, for danger, for something. But all he hears is that familiar, unbearable silence. And beneath it, buried but never far, is the echo of her.

Not a voice. Not anymore. Just that soft, persistent hum of a memory that never quite fades. It clings to the corners of his mind like frost to glass—fragile, but impossible to ignore. He presses his hands to his face, skin rough with calluses and cracked from exposure. The scrape of palm against cheek is sharp, but not enough. He scrubs harder, dragging his fingers down like he could peel her out of his head, like her memory is something under the skin that can be clawed free if he just digs deep enough.

But she’s still there.

I died for you.

It comes back sharper than the wind outside. The words aren’t dramatic. They’re not loud. But they settle in his chest like shrapnel. He’s heard them before—maybe not those exact ones, maybe not out loud—but he’s known their shape for a long time. They’ve been echoing in him since the moment he watched her fall.

He wants to hate her for it. Needs to, sometimes. For dying. For leaving. For becoming the one thing he can’t run from, even now. For being the one piece of his life that mattered, and for turning into the weight that keeps dragging him backward. That hate—it’s armor, maybe. It gives him something to hold onto, something to punch at in the dark. But even he knows it’s not real. Not really.

Because under all that anger, coiled tight and buried deep, is grief. Raw. Ugly. Unreasoning. It cuts through him like a blade made of her voice, of her smile, of the memory of her fingers wrapped in his. It burns colder than the world outside, and more precise. And the worst part? It never dulls.

He still wants her.

He always will.

But she’s gone. Has been. And Jungkook, for all his brokenness, knows how to survive. He’s good at it. Too good. He’s built his entire life around the fact that people leave, that things fall apart, that the only constant is what he can carry and the steps he can take on his own. So that’s what he does. He pulls himself to his feet, bones stiff, knees popping in protest. His body does what it always does: moves forward. Even when his heart doesn’t want to.

He straps on the familiar tools with mechanical precision—knife at the hip, rope looped and secured, spear slung across his back. His fingers know where everything belongs, moving with the ease of repetition. None of it’s about preparation anymore. It’s just habit. The cloak settles around his shoulders, heavy and worn, the kind of weight that’s come to feel like home.

He steps toward the mouth of the cave. It yawns open into a landscape carved from bone and silence. Jagged cliffs claw up at a sky that can’t decide if it wants to be day or night. The snow is untouched, perfect in its stillness, glittering faintly like it’s mocking the idea of beauty. No sun greets him—just a pale orb hanging behind gauze-thin clouds, more a memory of light than the real thing. The world stretches out in every direction like a graveyard waiting to be filled.

He doesn’t hesitate. He steps into the cold, breath curling in thin ribbons that vanish too fast to mean anything. This place doesn’t care about his pain. It doesn’t even recognize it. That’s what makes it honest.

Hunting makes sense. It’s sharp. It’s clean. It doesn’t twist inside him like grief does. It doesn’t wear her face, doesn’t whisper her name when the wind gets too quiet. Hunting has rules. Movement. Cause and effect. You track, you wait, you strike. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you eat. It doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.

His boots crunch against the snow, slow and deliberate. Each step is chosen, each shift in weight silent and exact. The cold gnaws at his exposed skin, peels it back with every gust, but he doesn’t flinch. This is the cost of staying alive. It always has been.

His mind narrows. Focuses. Tracks in the snow, barely visible. Something small, light-footed. Herded. He follows, crouching behind a ridge, eyes scanning for movement.

And then he hears her again.

You don’t belong here, Jungkook.

His jaw tightens. He clamps the memory down, drives it back into the place where all the others live. Buried. Suppressed.

Then: movement. A flicker of fur. He sees them now—a cluster of creatures almost indistinguishable from the snow around them. Small. Nimble. One lags behind. Young. Uncertain. That’s the one.

Jungkook dropped low behind the ridge, knees dipping into the powder with a soft crunch. The cold bit through his trousers instantly, but he barely registered it. He steadied his breath, letting it thin and slow until the air moved in and out of him without sound. The spear slid forward in his grip, the wood smooth where years of use had worn away the splinters, the weight settling into his palm like an old truth. It was his. Like the cold. Like the silence. Like the hunger.

Then—motion. His muscles moved before thought had time to catch up. One clean strike. No hesitation, no waste. The tip found its mark just behind the creature’s shoulder. It let out a short, high-pitched cry—sharp, almost human—and folded in on itself, legs giving way like twigs under a boot. The rest of the herd vanished in a chaos of white, a blur of fur and snow exploding into the trees. But the wounded one was already done. There’d be no second breath.

Jungkook was on it before the steam had finished rising from its side, boots tearing through the snow, knife already drawn. His hand found the base of its skull. The blade did the rest. Quick. Clean. Blood spilled into the powder, bright red against the white. He didn’t flinch. The warmth on his hands didn’t bother him. It hadn’t in years.

The carving came next. Muscle memory. No thought, no ceremony. Skin split beneath the blade, meat freed from bone, joints popped loose with practiced force. He worked in silence, not out of reverence, but efficiency. The beast’s eyes had already glazed over. There was no soul to honor. This wasn’t about violence. This was the work that came after hunger. After survival. This was what remained when the rest had been stripped away.

But even here—even now—she was with him.

Not in body. Not even in voice, really. Just that presence, tucked somewhere behind his ribs, waiting. Watching. Her name didn’t echo anymore, not like it used to, but she threaded through his thoughts in ways that didn’t need words. That dream had put her back in his head with cruel clarity. The way her eyes had met his. The way her voice had curled around his name like it still belonged to her. It wasn’t her—he knew that. It was just his mind clawing at the past, dredging her up again like it always did when the world went too quiet. But it didn’t matter. The effect was the same.

He clenched his jaw and drove the knife harder through the last tendon. Her laugh. That look. It all burned in his chest, and he shoved it down like he always did. Packed it deep where the cold couldn’t quite reach, but nothing else could either. She was gone. That was the truth. That was the only thing that mattered. She had died for him. He hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t wanted it, but she had done it anyway. And now her absence was something he wore like armor—sharp-edged, ill-fitting, impossible to take off. No amount of blood would clean it. No winter would freeze it out. But he told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself over and over until the words sounded almost believable.

By the time he slung the carcass over his shoulder, the sky had shifted again. Long shadows dragged across the snow. The cold deepened. The kind that bit clean through the furs on his back, slicing through layers like they weren’t even there. He welcomed it. The numbness. The sting. Let it hollow him out. Let it take whatever was left of the softness he hadn’t managed to kill.

He moved without ceremony, trudging back through the snow with the weight of the beast dragging at his spine and shoulders. But that weight was nothing compared to what he carried in silence. His name still meant something out here. In places like this—places that forgot warmth, forgot kindness—his name was a warning. Jungkook. The sound of it cut through camps like a blade through cloth. A ghost in the frost. A shadow in someone else's nightmare. That was who he was now. A survivor. A killer. The thing that endured when everything else broke.

There was no room in that identity for longing. No space for the delicate ruin of memory. Whatever that dream had been—just a trick of the cold. A hallucination. Nothing more. And if he repeated that long enough, tasted the lie until it felt like truth, maybe he’d stop feeling like he was splintering from the inside out.

Because truth or not, it was the only thing still keeping him upright.

Outside, the world waited—silent and cruel and wide. The cold here wasn’t just temperature. It was a creature, wild and patient, clawing its way through every crack in his armor. It didn’t rage. It crept. U.V.6 didn’t feel like a planet. It felt like exile. A punishment given form. Every breath of wind, every stretch of snow was a reminder that this place didn’t care if he survived. The sky above sagged low, heavy with clouds that never rained, never snowed—just hung there, bloated and gray, casting everything in the same pale, permanent dusk.

Five years. And it had never changed. Not once. Not the cold. Not the silence. Not the sense that he was slowly being erased.

And maybe, he’d never existed at all.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

He told himself it was exile. A decision made with clarity and resolve. But the truth was, that version of the story was easier to carry. It gave shape to something that otherwise felt like aimless collapse. The reality wasn’t poetic. It was far more mundane and far more brutal. There was no penance being paid here, no great arc toward redemption. U.V.6 didn’t offer salvation. It didn’t offer anything. It was a dead planet—silent, wide, and cold enough to break steel if you gave it time. The only people who ended up here were those with nowhere else to go, those too broken or too dangerous for the worlds that still had room for hope.

That was why Jungkook had come. Not because he was running—but because the running had ended. There was nowhere else left to turn, and he hadn’t wanted to pretend anymore. So he walked. Step by step into the frost, into the silence, into the kind of cold that didn’t scream but gnawed. The cloak he wore had stopped keeping him warm a long time ago. Now it was just habit. A piece of armor more symbolic than practical, worn more for the weight on his shoulders than the heat it never gave.

He didn’t feel the cold anymore. Not really. It had moved beyond discomfort, beyond pain. It had become something else—familiar. Like background noise. Like a dog that had stopped barking and just lay beside him in quiet companionship. Always there. Always waiting. The wind tore across the plains, fast and wild, but he didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t react at all.

Out here, he was no longer a man. Not entirely. Not in the ways that mattered. He was something stripped down and sharpened. A tool. A story whispered across frostbitten camps by men too scared to say his name. A shadow seen just after the last torch died. A ghost. Even he wasn’t sure what remained of the person he'd once been.

The creature he’d been tracking was close now. Just beyond the next rise. He could hear it before he saw it: the steady thump of heavy limbs displacing snow, the slow drag of fur and weight across the brittle earth. In this kind of quiet, every sound was louder than it should’ve been. It rang like a signal, drawing him forward.

He’d been on its trail for hours. Careful. Patient. Every footstep a decision. He didn’t chase the thrill anymore. That part of him had died sometime between one winter and the next, buried beneath blood and time. This wasn’t about excitement. It was habit. A rhythm etched into his body. There was no room for thought in it—only instinct. The wind carried scent. The snow carried prints. Every shift, every silence, every ripple of air told him what he needed to know.

But his mind—his mind never stayed still. That was the problem. Even after all this time, it betrayed him. Thoughts didn’t announce themselves. They didn’t crash in. They seeped. Quiet. Relentless. They moved like damp through stone, filling the cracks, and before he even realized it, she was there again.

Always her.

He still remembered how her hand had landed on his arm—firm, insistent. Her eyes had burned with certainty, even when everything else around them was falling to pieces. She had turned to face death, not with panic, but purpose. Her body between him and the oncoming fire. She’d made the choice. He hadn’t stopped her. He’d let her go.

He clenched his jaw, every muscle in his face locking tight. He forced her image back, shoved it into the same dark space in his mind where everything he couldn’t face went to fester. Guilt. Rage. The kind of grief that didn’t cry out but pulsed—constant, low, aching. There was no space for any of that right now. The hunt demanded stillness. Discipline. If he let his thoughts wander, he’d miss his shot. Or worse.

This wasn’t about food. Not really. He had stores. Enough to last a while. He hunted because it was the one thing that still made sense. The logic of it. The shape. Predator and prey. Chase and end. It gave him something to hold onto. Out here, in the white, he didn’t have to think about anything else. He just moved. Breathed. Survived.

The creature crested the rise like a slow-moving avalanche—huge, silent, beautiful in that sad, ancient way. Its white coat blended with the landscape, a moving ghost against a world already gone. Muscles shifted beneath fur, slow and heavy. It moved with the kind of grace you only saw in things that had never needed to be afraid. Its horns curved back from its skull, smooth and dark, catching what little light the sky offered.

It lowered its head, nosing the snow, searching for roots that no longer existed. A remnant of something older. A creature that hadn’t yet realized the world had moved on without it.

Jungkook watched from behind a jagged outcrop of ice. Perfectly still. His breath didn’t cloud in the air. He was too close. Too ready. He should’ve moved then. Should’ve struck.

But he didn’t.

For one brief, impossible moment, he just looked at it. The stillness. The quiet. The creature’s slow breath and unaware steps. For that moment, he let himself feel it—the illusion of peace. The echo of something that might’ve once been called mercy.

He exhaled. Low. Focused. Let everything else fall away.

The spear left his hand without hesitation, cutting a perfect line through the frozen air. It hit, hard and true, burying deep into the beast’s side. It cried out—short, shocked, already collapsing. He was moving before it finished falling. Knife drawn. Body low. His muscles did the work his mind refused to.

The kill was clean. It always was. No cruelty. No emotion. Just function.

He knelt beside it, fingers already soaked in heat and blood, working fast. Skin peeled back. Flesh carved and sorted. No pause. No thought. Just movement. Just necessity.

But even in the rhythm of it, her laugh pushed through. Bright and human and uninvited. It echoed in the back of his mind, not loud—but undeniable. It had once made the world feel bearable. Had once made him feel bearable.

He remembered how she stood—shoulders squared, eyes locked ahead, steady even as everything around them fractured. She hadn’t flinched. Not once. She’d stepped into the fire like it meant nothing. And he’d let her. That was the part that never changed, no matter how many times he tried to rewrite the memory. He hadn’t dragged her back. He hadn’t fought her on it. He’d just watched her walk into death, and then he’d walked away.

His hand froze mid-cut, blade slick and trembling in his grip. His fingers had gone bone-white around the hilt, every tendon pulled taut. For a second, he couldn’t breathe—just this shallow catch in his throat, like the cold had finally punched through all the way to his lungs. The guilt surged up so fast it left him dizzy, like heat flaring through frostbite. And for a moment, just one fractured heartbeat, he let himself feel it.

Then, with practiced ease, he shoved it down. Not gently. Not carefully. He forced it back like a boot grinding a flame into the dirt. This wasn’t the time. It was never the time. Grief had no place here. Not in this world, not on this ground. Survival didn’t leave space for mourning.

She was gone. That was the fact. The rule. And rules didn’t care about regret. No one was coming to forgive him. No one ever had.

He stood slowly, wiping the blood from his hands into the snow, watching the red-black streaks spread across the white like some ancient language he didn’t speak anymore. The kill had been flawless. Textbook. But there was no peace in it. There hadn’t been for years. The hunt didn’t cleanse—it just muted the screaming for a little while. And even that was beginning to fail.

Six years since Kublai Khan. Since that last mission. Since he, Namjoon, and Leo had clawed their way out of the fire, dragging whatever was left of themselves through smoke and ash. He’d left them in New Mecca. Alive. Safe. Whole enough to start over. That had been the only thing he could offer—the only thing he had left to give. Distance. Quiet. Disappearance.

Now he walked alone, the beast’s body slung across his shoulders, its weight sinking deep into the thick furs that clung to his back. Blood soaked through the seams, warm at first, then cooling quickly in the wind. It should’ve been heavy. But it wasn’t. It grounded him, reminded him that he still existed in a world where things bled when they were cut. That was the most he asked for these days.

He moved through the snow with the rhythm of a man who’d worn a path into the planet. His steps were deliberate, patient, not driven by urgency but by the quiet compulsion to keep going. Always forward. Because if he stopped, even for a moment, the questions would catch up.

Why? Why keep breathing? Why keep moving through a world that had long since stopped pretending to care?

He never had an answer. Only the question, lodged in his skull like shrapnel that time had dulled but never removed.

And then the storm came.

There was no warning. One second the air was still, the sky unchanged. The next, it all shattered. A wall of white slammed into him like the world itself had decided to reject his presence. The wind screamed—high and thin, like something dying—and the snow flew sideways, thick and blinding. It was like walking into a wall of needles, the cold turning from background noise into pure violence. He couldn’t see. Could barely breathe. But he didn’t panic.

His body responded without hesitation. He dropped low, moving fast and precise, tucking behind a jagged rise of ice. The world howled above him, tearing past with enough force to rip flesh from bone. But he stayed small. Stayed still. The storm raged, but it didn’t take him.

Still... something felt off.

This wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t just weather. It moved too deliberately. It circled. It watched. It felt like something with eyes.

He tried to ignore it, but the thought slid into his mind anyway, slick and quiet: You’re not alone.

He hissed through his teeth and forced it away. Paranoia was a killer out here. He knew that better than most. But still, his eyes scanned the white. And then—there. A gap in the ridgeline. Dark and jagged. Shelter.

A cave.

He adjusted the carcass on his back and leaned into the storm. Every step was a battle. Every movement dragged his body closer to the edge of collapse. The wind was a living thing now, slamming into him from every side, trying to drive him back. But he pushed forward. Always forward.

By the time he stumbled into the cave, the storm had turned feral behind him. It clawed at the narrow entrance like something alive, screeching against the stone, desperate to drag him back. But the moment he crossed the threshold, it was like the world cut itself off. One second all chaos, the next—nothing. The silence dropped so fast it didn’t feel real. Like someone had flipped a switch.

Inside, the air was dead still. Not calm, not peaceful—just empty.

His breath thundered in his ears, wild and uneven, the only sound left. It made the silence feel even deeper somehow, like the cave was listening. The space around him was tight and narrow, the rock smoothed down by time, wind, maybe even water once, long ago. It looked like the kind of place that had been home to something, once. Not anymore. Nothing lived here now.

He let the carcass slide off his shoulders. It hit the ground with a thick, wet slap, folding in on itself. Steam rose from the wounds—slow, curling, reluctant to leave. He didn’t look at it. Just dropped his back against the wall and sank down, legs folding under him. Every muscle in his body screamed, but he didn’t make a sound. His whole chest felt raw from breathing, like he’d been sprinting for days.

For a long minute, he didn’t move.

No wind. No voices. No thoughts worth thinking. Just the cave around him, the stink of blood, the weight of survival pressing down.

But silence never stayed. Not for him.

It started quiet. Barely there. A whisper against stone—soft, like breath, like wind working through a crack somewhere deep inside the rock. Easy to ignore. Easy to pretend it was just his nerves fraying at the edges. But then it came again. Louder. Sharper. A long, deliberate scrape.

Claws on stone.

He didn’t breathe. Every muscle locked in place as his hand slid to his side. The pistol was already there, cool and familiar under his fingers. He didn’t pull it—didn’t need to. Just holding it steadied him. Like touching something he still had control over. Something real. His lips twitched into a smirk, but there was nothing warm in it. Just a reflex. A piece of armor he wore on instinct.

“Come on, then,” he said under his breath, steady and low.

He didn’t take his eyes off the cave’s mouth. The storm behind it had gone pale and blue, casting a dim glow that silhouetted whatever was out there.

And then it stepped in.

Not shadow. Not anything from this world.

It moved wrong—taller than a man, broader than anything should be, its whole body slick and black, plated in something that caught the light like oil on ice. The sheen of it shifted when it moved, gliding instead of walking, smooth as smoke. Its eyes—if you could call them that—flared bright green, too bright, too knowing. It didn’t breathe. Didn’t hesitate. It just stood there and looked at him like it had all the time in the world.

Jungkook didn’t blink.

The shot came like lightning—instant, instinctual. The sound slammed through the cave like a bomb. The muzzle flash lit the walls. The thing jerked once, hard, and dropped, twitching once before going still.

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Smoke curled from the barrel. He didn’t lower the gun right away. Just stared at what was left of it. No thrill. No sense of relief. Just that cold, simple truth: it was dead, and he wasn’t.

That was all that mattered.

Then a voice cut in behind him.

“Well,” it said. Dry. Almost amused. “That’s one way to make an entrance.”

His breath caught—not from surprise, not exactly. But the voice landed with weight. Familiar. Sharp-edged. It didn’t belong here, and yet it fit too well.

He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to.

“Imelda.”

Her name came out like something pulled from a scar.

She stood at the far wall, half-shadowed by the stormlight behind her. She looked like part of the cave itself—unchanged, untouched, impossible to ignore. Snow flurried around her but never touched her, like even the elements gave her distance. The space shifted with her presence. Narrowed. Tightened.

He didn’t look at her. Just crouched beside the dead thing and started checking it—hands moving without needing instruction.

“You always did have a gift for showing up at the worst possible moment,” he said.

Her mouth twitched into something like a smile, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “Since when do you ever need me?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept moving, checking the body with mechanical focus. She stepped closer. And even when she wasn’t speaking, she had this way of filling the space. Like the silence bent toward her.

“Why are you here?” he asked finally, no attempt to hide the frustration in his voice. “Another riddle? More vague warnings wrapped in pretty language?”

She tilted her head, eyes locked on him. Calm. Sharp. “Do you ever stop running?”

He let out a short, bitter laugh. “I’m not running. I’m surviving.”

“Is there a difference?” she asked, soft and flat, like the question wasn’t meant to be answered.

He clenched his jaw. “What the hell do you know about it?”

He stood, wiping blood from his hands onto his cloak. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You show up, drop your little omens like breadcrumbs, then disappear again like you’re doing me a favor.”

She just looked at him. Like she always did. Like she saw too much.

“And yet,” she said quietly, “you’re still listening.”

He raked a hand through his hair, breath sharp. “Not by choice.”

She stepped in closer, the words following like they’d been waiting.

“There’s something coming. And it’s not something you can shoot. Not something you can outrun. If you don’t face who you are—if you don’t remember where you came from—you’re not going to survive it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Here we go. ‘The truth is coming.’ Heard it all before.”

Then she said it.

“The Necromongers are coming.”

The words dropped like stone.

He didn’t recognize the name. Not really. But something in it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Like the world around it had shifted.

“Never heard of them,” he said slowly, the sarcasm gone from his voice.

Imelda didn’t move. “They’ll make Butcher Bay feel like sanctuary.”

That hit harder.

Butcher Bay.

He didn’t need a reminder. The name alone opened something inside him he didn’t want touched. His whole body tensed like it could shut the memory out by force.

“Don’t talk about Butcher Bay,” he said. Quiet. Flat. Dangerous.

“You think getting out was the end,” she said, not unkind. Just steady. “But it wasn’t. That was only the beginning. And now here you are, sitting in the dark pretending you’re free. But you’re not, Jungkook. You never were. And it’s coming for you.”

He looked away. His voice came out small, not weak, just… tired.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know more than you think,” she said. “And I know this—you can’t keep hiding from what you are. The truth doesn’t wait. It comes whether you’re ready or not.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Final.

Outside, the storm howled again, louder now.

He turned toward her to speak—

But she was gone.

“Figures,” he muttered, eyes dropping back to the body in front of him. But he didn’t move. His hands stayed still, hovering inches above the creature’s twisted remains, like they’d forgotten what they were supposed to be doing. He wasn’t really looking at the thing anymore. His focus had already gone somewhere else.

“ Necromongers , huh?” The word slipped out of his mouth like a curse. “Just another threat.” But even as he said it, it didn’t land. The words came out thin, flat. Like he was trying to sound dismissive but couldn’t quite sell it, not even to himself.

He kept staring, jaw clenched so hard it started to ache, but his eyes weren’t on the carcass. The glow that had bled from its wounds was already fading, sinking into the frost-covered stone beneath it like it had never been there at all. The corpse didn’t matter anymore. It was the name. The name she’d left hanging in the air like smoke.

Imelda’s voice still hadn’t gone. It was lodged somewhere in his chest, quiet but heavy, louder than the wind outside, louder than the storm clawing at the cave walls.

He didn’t know what she was. Still didn’t. Never had. No ID. No trail. No connection to any faction he could trace. The first time she’d appeared, it had been after Butcher Bay—when the nightmares still hadn’t let go of his throat, when he couldn’t sleep without waking up ready to kill something. He’d thought she was a hallucination, just another ghost stirred up by trauma. A trick of his brain, same as the dreams. But she kept showing up. Always right when he was starting to forget. Right when he was almost numb again. She’d be there. No warning. No reason. Just… there.

He’d tried to make sense of it. Spent weeks convincing himself she was some sort of handler, a relic from one of the old covert programs—maybe a fragment of whatever war had made him. Or maybe she wasn’t real at all, just some embedded glitch in his system, a symptom of how broken he really was. But no matter how he framed it, deep down, in the place that still knew the difference between real and not, he couldn’t lie to himself. She was real. As real as the blood in his mouth. As real as every scar on his body.

He stepped back from the corpse, boots crunching against the frost-layered stone, the sound small under the groan of the wind outside. The air felt like it was trying to get in, pounding against the rock as if the mountain had offended it somehow. The whole floor shivered under each gust. Like the world was reminding him it didn’t care if he froze out here or bled out alone in the dark.

His gaze flicked toward the cave’s mouth. Still empty. Of course it was. She was always gone before he could follow. No tracks. No prints in the snow. No scent to trace. He’d tried once—Vega Drift, Helion Gate, a few other names he didn’t like to say out loud anymore. Same result every time. She’d vanish as easily as she arrived. Drop a name, a sentence, a look that saw through him, then disappear like she was never there.

He moved deeper into the cave, away from the creature’s body, toward the cold ring of stones he’d arranged days ago. Dropped into a crouch beside it. The old fire pit had gone cold, nothing left but ash and memory. He struck the flint without urgency, more out of habit than need. Something to keep his hands busy. Something to hold off the name that kept circling his mind like a buzzard.

Necromongers.

Didn’t sound like rumor. Didn’t sound like paranoia or ghost story. It sounded old. Heavy. Like a name with blood in its roots. Something meant to be feared. Something that had been feared once already.

The spark finally caught. A thread of flame licked up through dry tinder and began to spread, slow and steady. Light chased back the edges of the dark, but only a little. It made the space around him feel warmer—but not safe. Nothing was safe anymore.

He sat still, staring into the fire as it grew, the light washing his face in flickering amber. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared, like the answers were buried somewhere in the coals. But they weren’t.

And that was the truth, wasn’t it?

He didn’t know what he was anymore. Not really. But she did.

And that, more than anything else, scared the hell out of him.

He shifted, just enough to stretch out one leg, and the grin came before he could stop it. A tired, bitter curve of the mouth. “Butcher Bay,” he said quietly. “What a fucking joke.”

He could still feel the bite of the cuffs when they first clamped around his wrists. Cold, sharp, too tight. The recycled air inside the ship—metallic, dry—had burned his throat even before the guards had started barking orders. Even before Lee.

Taemin Lee’s voice had grated through the stillness like a file across bone. “They’re paying a fortune for you.”

Jungkook hadn’t even looked at him. Just opened one eye and said, flat as a knife, “You won’t get what you think.” And he hadn’t.

Butcher Bay had welcomed him with the kind of heat that didn’t just sit on your skin—it sank into it. The sun had baked the landing platform until the steel itself shimmered, and Lee had shoved him forward like he was nothing worth worrying about. No warden in sight. Just a few guards who couldn’t have cared less. That was the moment instinct took over. He didn’t think, didn’t plan. Just moved. Cracked Lee’s neck before the man knew what was happening, caught the blaster on its way down, and then all hell broke loose.

He remembered the alarms screaming to life. The smell of ozone and blood. The hit he took to the shoulder, the weight of his boots slamming against steel grates as he ran. The maintenance shaft had come out of nowhere. He didn’t think—just dove, hands catching hot rungs, palms tearing open.

The shaft spat him out into some forgotten level deep in the prison’s guts. Pipes groaning, lights flickering like dying stars, the smell of rust and old sweat thick in the air.

He remembered crouching behind crates, watching the beam of a flashlight pass inches from his face. Remembered finding a shotgun—standard issue, not locked to a DNA scan. One lucky break. Cuffs still on his wrists, slicing into the skin every time he moved. But he moved anyway. He didn’t have a plan. Not yet. He just refused to die in that place.

They thought they could keep him there. Thought they understood what kind of animal he was. That was their first mistake.

He’d crawled through vents that felt barely wide enough to breathe in. Each metal edge scraped his arms raw. The heat inside the walls was unbearable, like the whole place was built to boil things alive. But he kept going. Inch by inch. Stopping wasn’t an option.

Eventually, the vent dropped him into some maintenance corridor lit by half-dead bulbs. Alarms still howled above somewhere, distant now, but constant. Another trap, just deeper in the belly. No exit. No easy way out. Just more walls. More doors.

He kept moving anyway.

At some point, he thought he’d made it. Found a hatch. Opened it. Blinding sunlight poured in. Sand. Heat. Freedom.

Then a voice in his ear.

“Rise and shine, Jungkook.”

The memory pulled him back hard. Cold metal walls again. Lee standing over him, grinning like he’d already won. Just a dream. Or maybe something worse.

Didn’t matter. Because when the ship finally landed for real, the sun felt the same. The fences, the guards, the goddamn heat pressing down on his back—it was exactly like before. Lee said something about Batemen’s price. Jungkook barely registered it.

His eyes were locked on the man waiting beyond the gates.

Batemen.

Didn’t speak much. Didn’t have to. The way he stood, it was like the ground listened to him. Lee had postured, tossed around numbers like they meant anything. Batemen hadn’t blinked. Jungkook wasn’t a guest. He was inventory.

The moment the restraints clamped around his ankles again, Jungkook knew the truth—this place was designed to break people. But it wasn’t going to break him.

They moved fast. Hands on his arms. Rifle pressed to his spine. The walk into the prison was a tunnel of slamming doors and steel echoes, each louder than the last. Like being swallowed whole.

Cells stared back at him. Men behind bars, silent, studying. Faces hard. Tattoos like maps of pain. A few muttered something low. One or two just stared with dead eyes.

He’d clocked two right away—one built like a wrecking ball, burn scars crawling up his arms like vines. The other skinny and twitching, tapping the bars like he was counting the seconds.

Jungkook didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just watched. Took it all in. Types. Patterns. Weaknesses.

He barely made it three steps before a hand landed on his shoulder—heavy, steady, and very much meant to stop him. Not violent, but there was no mistaking the intent. Jungkook turned just enough to see who it was. The guy was built like a wall, broad through the chest and shoulders, dreads hanging past the collar of his uniform like they’d been there for years. The name tag stitched over his chest read ABBOTT, bold black letters that didn’t need a first name. Head of Security, by the look of him. The kind of man who didn’t bother bluffing. His face was all angles and control, his eyes dark and unreadable, like deep water that didn’t ripple no matter what you threw into it.

The path they took after that felt different—narrower halls, tighter corners, the kind of corridor you didn’t walk unless someone was bringing you somewhere permanent. The walls were thicker here. Older, reinforced with layers of steel and reinforced mesh like they’d been expecting monsters, not inmates. Cameras dotted the ceiling like blinking insects, their red lights sweeping across every move he made. The air reeked of industrial bleach, the kind of chemical burn that couldn’t quite cover the underlying stench—sweat, rot, desperation.

At some point, someone took the cuffs off. They didn’t say anything, and they didn’t lower the rifles. Protocol. Or maybe they just liked the reminder of what could happen if he stopped cooperating.

And then Batemen arrived.

Same man from the pad. Same blank expression. His uniform looked like it had been pressed by a machine, not a wrinkle in sight. He didn’t speak—just nodded once, slow and deliberate, as if that was enough to set everything else in motion. Abbott stepped forward, keyed open a door.

“This is home now,” he said, no inflection, no welcome, just fact.

Jungkook didn’t look back. He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a sound he’d never forget—deep, final, like something being sealed shut. It didn’t echo. Just landed hard and stayed there.

The cell was as basic as they came. A cot bolted to the wall, a toilet with no seat, metal sink in the corner. The walls were covered in the kinds of marks people leave when they’re trying not to disappear—names, tallies, scratches, all of it layered over time, ghosts stacked on ghosts. A single bulb buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make the shadows twitch.

The first few hours passed like something out of a bad fever dream. Time dragged, heavy and dull, each second stretching longer than it had any right to. He sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, listening to the quiet hum of the prison as it pressed in around him. The place didn’t just contain—it watched. Every sound felt amplified, like the building itself was leaning in to hear him breathe.

When they finally let him into gen pop, he moved with purpose. Quiet. Calculated. He didn’t strut, didn’t shrink—just walked like someone who already knew how this worked. He scanned the room, taking mental inventory. There were the ones bartering near the walls, trading food for smokes or silence. Others moved through the space like ghosts, avoiding eye contact, barely present. Long-timers. Guys who’d checked out years ago but hadn’t died yet.

It was all tension, all the time—unspoken rules running under the surface like a current. One wrong look, one wrong move, and you were part of the bloodstain on the floor.

“Over here, new fish.”

The voice was casual but too loud, meant to be heard. Jungkook turned just enough to catch the speaker: skinny guy in a stained apron, holding a pair of dull scissors like they were part of his hand. Barber. His grin was the kind people wore when they’d learned to survive by being useful, not honest.

“Someone’s been asking about you,” he said, nodding toward the yard. “Out near the Pit.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just gave the smallest nod and kept moving. You didn’t ignore a message like that, but you didn’t show your hand either. Barber stayed in his peripheral vision. People like that always came with strings attached.

The yard was a slab of cracked concrete, baking under a sun that felt almost artificial. Too hot. Too bright. Cameras watched from every angle. The Pit sat low in the middle, sunken and ringed with faded lines like an arena that had forgotten it was supposed to entertain. That’s when Mattsson appeared—skin slick with sweat, breath quick, eyes darting like he expected someone to grab him any second.

“I stashed something for you,” he said. “Shiv. No catch. Just thought you should have it.”

And then he was gone, evaporated into the crowd like he hadn’t even been there. No time to ask questions. Just another cryptic breadcrumb dropped on the trail.

That was the first real sign. A message. A weapon. A whisper. He hadn’t made a single move, but someone already had plans for him. Someone wanted to see what he’d do.

He remembered what came next in bursts—heat bouncing off the concrete, the sting of dust in his eyes, the scent of bodies packed too tight in one place. And then two men, cutting through the blur like predators. One big, the other wired tight and twitchy, both walking with that look people get when they think they’re about to win something.

“You lost?” the big one asked, already smiling like he knew the answer.

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just took a breath, let it settle deep. Loosened his shoulders. Waited.

The first punch was lazy—telegraphed, full of ego. Jungkook stepped into it, redirected the momentum with a sharp elbow, and drove his own shot straight into the guy’s ribs. The man folded, gasping, but Jungkook didn’t wait. He pivoted clean and sent a hook into the guy’s jaw, felt the thud through his knuckles as the body dropped hard onto the sun-warmed concrete.

The second guy froze. His eyes went wide. “Didn’t see nothin’,” he said, hands up, already backing away.

Jungkook stood still, letting the moment settle. His skin itched from the heat, blood still humming through his limbs. Around him, the yard pulled in like a held breath—not silence, but that particular stillness that comes after something quick and brutal. He could feel it now—the stares, the recalibrating. Watching from behind fences, behind cameras, behind the façade of order.

Then the twitchy one snapped. Rage, blind and sudden, driving him forward. Jungkook shifted his weight, sidestepped, and slammed an uppercut into the man’s chin with everything behind it. The body jerked, twisted, and hit the ground hard.

He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, letting the heat of the moment bleed out into the air, giving the eyes around him—hidden behind steel mesh, behind camera lenses, behind the silence—the time to process what they’d just seen. Not a single guard showed up. No alarm, no warning. The cameras didn’t even flicker. Butcher Bay didn’t blink at violence. It didn’t discourage it. It ran on it.

“You hand something over,” Jungkook said quietly, his voice low enough to feel more like a thought than a threat, “you don’t get to beg for it back.”

The moment played again in his head, not dramatic—just clear, like a loop that had already worn a groove into his memory.

Abbott had shown up right on cue. Calm. Collected. His stance relaxed but loaded, like he could go from still to lethal in half a heartbeat. Uniform pressed, weapon slung across his chest with that practiced ease you only saw in people who never needed to show off. He didn’t need to raise his voice. Didn’t need to scowl. “Easy,” he’d said, lifting the barrel of his rifle just enough to cast a long shadow across the floor. “Rust keeps this place in order. You kill him, I have to file paperwork.”

Jungkook didn’t flinch. Still holding Rust’s stare, not breaking eye contact. “You want the knife?” he said, like it was a genuine offer.

Then he dropped it. Let the blade fall from his hand and hit the floor hard, the sound sharp in the silence. That was all it took to shift the tension. Rust stumbled back half a step, like someone had cut an invisible thread holding him in place.

And then, like a switch had flipped, Rust turned. Reached out, grabbed Mattsson’s hand—and snapped one of his fingers clean, fast, without a blink. Just a crack, a dry pop of bone. Mattsson folded in on himself with a strangled yelp, clutching his hand, sucking in breath like it might stop the pain from drowning him.

It wasn’t about the injury. It never was. It was about the message. Rust was putting on a show, same as always. Showing the room how things worked. Drawing a line that wasn’t really for Jungkook—it was for everyone else.

Jungkook didn’t react. Not even a twitch. He just watched Rust, his expression unreadable. Not impressed, not rattled. Just... still. That kind of silence didn’t come easy, and it said more than shouting ever could. If Rust was looking for fear, he was staring into the wrong face.

But Jungkook had already started cataloguing. Rust’s need to dominate, the timing of his violence, the fact that he chose someone weaker to prove a point. Patterns. Weaknesses. Tell after tell. There wouldn’t be a next time with a rifle between them. Next time, it would be different.

Rust tried to play it off with a shrug and a smirk, smoothing his shirt like that little crack of control hadn’t cost him something. “See, Jungkook,” he said, voice back to its usual slick drawl, “around here, you either fall in line—or you break.”

Jungkook gave a small shrug. Calm. Like he was accepting a menu, not a threat. “Good to know how things run,” he said.

Then his eyes drifted down to Mattsson, who was still crouched on the floor, cradling his hand. Jungkook looked back up at Rust. No pity. No rush. Just quiet understanding of how the game worked. He wasn’t about to do anything reckless—not here, not now. This was a setup. First round of something much bigger. And he wasn’t going to waste it.

Abbott exhaled through his nose, bored already. “Enough. Take it somewhere else,” he said, tone flat like he’d heard this routine too many times before.

That was the reality of Butcher Bay. Let the gangs run their pecking order. Keep the chaos contained where it served a purpose. The guards didn’t step in unless it spilled over. Some of them even looked entertained.

The whole thing blurred a bit after that, like remembering through dirty glass. He’d walked away from Rust without so much as a glance back, hands in his pockets, head up. The cameras followed him, quiet and steady, their little red lights blinking like they were impressed—or maybe just curious. Let them watch. Let them think they understood him. They didn’t. Not yet.

Rust had called out as he left, voice ringing off the walls. “Took your sweet time.”

Jungkook didn’t slow down. Just wiped the blood from his knuckles with the back of his sleeve, still walking. “Had to meet the neighbors,” he said over his shoulder. “They’re real friendly.”

Behind him, Rust pulled a blade—curved, worn, the kind that had been used a lot and probably cleaned almost never. He held it like it was part of his arm, casual and loose. That kind of looseness always meant confidence. Or arrogance.

Jungkook stretched his arms overhead, slow and easy, like this was warm-up, not escalation. “You planning a funeral?” he asked. “Hope you brought something sharper than a butter knife.”

Rust’s grin twitched at the edge. Then he lunged.

No talk. No threat. Just a sharp, quick stab aimed for the gut.

But Jungkook was already moving—angled his body just enough for the blade to miss and cracked his fist straight into Rust’s ribs. It landed solid, enough to knock the wind loose. Rust stumbled, recovered, swung wide. Sloppy. Jungkook ducked the swing, stepped in again—hit him hard in the temple, then again in the ribs. Each strike clean, efficient. No waste.

Rust didn’t drop. Not right away. He had fight in him. Grit. But Jungkook had survived worse, and he could see the tells—Rust’s eyes darting, fingers shifting, telegraphing the next move before it happened.

When the knife came again, low and quick, Jungkook drove his elbow into Rust’s wrist. The blade flew. Rust dove after it, desperate.

Jungkook kicked it away without a word.

Then he brought his knee up into Rust’s chest with everything behind it. The impact knocked Rust back into the wall with a sickening thud. He collapsed to the floor, one knee down, coughing, wheezing, trying to breathe through ribs that probably weren’t all intact anymore.

Jungkook stood over him for a moment, breathing hard but steady. He could’ve finished it. No one would’ve stopped him. But he didn’t.

He leaned in close enough for only Rust to hear. “Next time,” he said, voice quiet and clear, “bring more than rookies.”

Then he turned and walked away, not bothering to look back.

No one followed.

The silence that hung behind him wasn’t shock—it was respect. Or maybe fear. Either way, it was the right kind.

He moved through the Aquila wing like nothing had happened. Blood on his shirt, bruises already blooming, but posture relaxed. No one stepped out. No one spoke. Just doors closing a little tighter and faces turning away. Message received.

And halfway down the hall, he saw it—just a flicker, half-buried under grime and dust. A panel, easy to miss unless you were looking. He crouched, wiped it off with the edge of his sleeve.

Medical station. Outdated. Ugly. But still humming. Still alive.

He exhaled softly, almost laughed. “Knew you’d still be breathing.”

The machine looked more like a threat than help. Cracked casing, faded labels, injector ports that looked like they belonged on a drill press. It wasn’t exactly welcoming.

“Real inviting,” he muttered, eyeing the twin needles. “Stick my neck in and hope it doesn’t fry me.”

He hesitated, but only for a breath. Then leaned forward, pressing his temple into the groove.

The hiss was fast. Low and sharp, like a vent releasing pressure. Then came the pain. Sharp, clinical. The needles punched in without warning, and a bolt of something seared through the base of his skull. His jaw clenched. Muscles locked. His vision tipped sideways. For a second, he thought he might black out.

Then it passed.

He blinked. No blood. Just two tiny punctures that were already closing. His body felt lighter. Clearer. The ache in his ribs faded to a dull pulse.

He reached up, rubbed the side of his neck. “Hell of a bedside manner,” he said under his breath. “But I’ve had worse.”

Four green lights still blinked on the display. Enough for later.

He stepped back, watching his own shadow stretch long across the wall. It looked taller than it should. Sharper. Like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Even the silence around him felt alert now. Like the walls were taking note.

He turned his head, just slightly. “Fine,” he murmured. “Keep watching.”

And then he walked away—calm, steady—leaving the machine behind him, its mechanical hum fading like a heartbeat that finally stopped racing. For a moment, he just listened. Nothing chased him. No one called out. But there was no victory in the quiet. Just the next problem.

There hadn’t been an exit. No ladder. No obvious way forward. Just a drop—deep and black, no telling where it ended. He’d stood at the edge, eyes on the tech down below, alone, back turned, probably running routine diagnostics without any idea what was coming. Jungkook waited, just a second. Long enough to feel the air whispering past through the vents. Then he’d said it—quiet, to no one. “Only one way to find out.”

He backed up, ran, and launched over the railing. The air screamed past him. His boots slammed into the technician’s spine, driving them both to the floor. He felt the body crumple under him, bones shifting wrong. Jungkook hit hard, rolled with it, teeth grinding, and didn’t stop. He shoved the tech aside, slammed his palm to the scanner.

The screen lit up.

DNA accepted.

And just like that, everything went to hell.

Alarms blared. Sirens screeched in unison like something had broken loose. Red light strobed through the room, painting everything in flashes of warning. Doors slammed shut with metallic finality. He could already hear boots above him—fast, purposeful. Shouting. Barked orders. He didn’t hesitate. He ran.

He remembered the chaos starting like fire. One flicker, and then it spread. The cell blocks erupted. Fists flying. Guards overwhelmed. Smoke curling through the air thick enough to taste. Jungkook didn’t start the riot, but he may as well have. All he’d done was light the match, and the place exploded like it had been waiting for someone to give it permission.

He’d almost smiled. Couldn’t help it. His pulse thundered, his legs burned, but he didn’t slow down.

The rifle in his hands had felt strange at first—too heavy, too loud. It fought him. No tech enhancements, no stabilizers, no digital counters to hold his hand. Just hard metal and recoil that kicked like it had something to prove. Everything about it was manual. Primitive. Honest. But after a few rounds, the rhythm came back. He started reading guard patterns before they even appeared—using the prison’s structure against them, pushing them where he wanted them to go.

Then the mech arrived.

He still remembered the sound. Not the footsteps, but the mechanical growl—the one that rumbled before the elevator doors peeled open. It stepped out like a warning. Six barrels on each arm. Armor thick enough to laugh off explosives. No hesitation, no reason to. Jungkook didn’t try to face it. He disappeared into the shadows before it could get a target lock.

The pilot’s voice echoed, cocky and loud, filling the corridors like he was doing commentary for an audience. Good. It gave Jungkook cover. He slipped through the dark, a knife in one hand, his breathing controlled, his steps silent. Every time he shot out a light, the guards lost another piece of control. The darker it got, the more advantage he had.

He stopped being the hunted. Became something else. Something with intent.

While the riot raged—screams and gunfire and panic echoing in every direction—he moved through the chaos like it didn’t apply to him. Slipping past patrols, vaulting over barriers, sliding through security doors before they could seal. Always heading deeper. Toward the Pit.

The sewers hit like a punch to the senses. The air was thick and wet, every breath coated in the taste of rust and rot. The grates beneath his boots groaned, and the smell of old chemicals clung to everything. Things moved in the dark—fast, shrieking things that didn’t belong anywhere above ground. His flashlight barely worked. His shotgun stayed tight in his grip. He couldn’t afford to waste a single shell.

He remembered the bodies. Twisted, half-melted things. And the door. Of course the door was locked. Handle ripped clean off. No other way through.

He’d stood there and laughed. Not out of amusement. Just the absurdity. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course it’s broken.”

So he went down.

The drop sent him ankle-deep into thick, wet filth that clung like it had weight. The floor sucked at his boots. The heat wrapped around him like it was alive, thick with decay and condensation. It didn’t matter. He didn’t pause. Just checked the shotgun, adjusted his grip, and kept moving. It felt like he spent hours crawling through that pit—past dead things, old things, things that hissed and slithered and snapped. The grime didn’t bother him anymore. The fear had gone quiet.

Eventually, the tunnels began to change. The dark cracked open just enough to reveal Pigsville—a twisted, sprawling scrapheap of platforms and wires lashed to the prison’s bones. Lights flickered. Voices shouted. Machinery screamed. It was chaos barely holding itself together. But it breathed. And that made it feel close enough to freedom to matter.

That’s when the change came.

It didn’t happen during a fight, or at some boss checkpoint. It came quiet. Subtle. A sudden spike of pain behind his eyes—fast, searing, sharp enough to stagger him. No warning. No trigger. Just a flash of white-hot pressure and the feeling like something inside his skull had split.

He blinked. Once. Then again.

And the world wasn’t the same.

What was shadow became detail. Edges. Layers. Shapes he'd never noticed sharpened into focus. He could see the heat coming off wires. The wear on a guard’s boots from the other side of a room. The rust creeping in under walls. It wasn’t just better vision. It was deeper. Truer. The kind of sight you felt more than saw.

But light? That was the trade. Fluorescents hit him like migraines. Brightness stabbed into his skull. He had to learn the balance—when to switch it off, when to stay buried in the dark. He learned quickly. He always did.

And that was the moment it shifted. Not the prison. Him.

The shadows didn’t just hide him anymore. They welcomed him. He moved through them like breath. Guards started dying before alarms went off. Inmates disappeared without a sound. Red lights blinked, but they never saw what was coming. Rumors started to spread. Something with silver eyes. Something that moved through vents and left bodies behind.

That was him.

Later, much later, he’d hear about another way. A different path. A guard uniform hidden in a storage locker, near the start of the zone. He could’ve walked through Narc-town unnoticed. Shopped, even. Bought ammo from a vending machine like a tourist.

He laughed when he remembered that. Too late. He was already too deep. He’d made his way forward in blood and grit, and by the time he got to the clearance codes—close enough to taste it—everything snapped.

Blackout. No warning. No control.

A cutscene swallowed him whole.

No weapons. No codes. Just steel bars and a darker cell, deeper in the Pit.

The game changed after that. Slower. Meaner. Like it wanted to see what patience looked like under pressure. The clean escapes were gone. Now it was back to the grind—fighting in cage matches, running errands for lunatics, scrounging for favors that cost more than they were worth.

He remembered it like a loop—punch, run, barter, repeat. Like a rat in a maze that kept rearranging itself. There were conversations if you stopped long enough to hear them. Mad inmates whispering nonsense. Useless trades. Rigged games. He played once. Lost. Never again.

The deeper he went, the worse the air got. Mold crept along the walls like veins. The lights couldn’t hold a steady glow for more than a breath. He found a shotgun on a dead guard and didn’t feel relief. Just acknowledgment. He’d need it. The flashlight barely worked. The beam trembled, turned shadows into monsters.

That’s when they came. He’d learn later they were called Xenos.

He heard them first. Scraping. Clicking. Breathing like broken engines.

And then they were there—fast, wrong, barely human. Limbs too long, eyes too dull, mouths full of too many teeth. He fired. One shell, one body gone. Wet impact. But more came. Always more.

He fell back, ducked into an alcove, reloaded with shaking hands. That’s where he met Coins—Mercurio Stearns. Wired wrong. Staring too hard. Clutching a busted radio like it was sacred.

He handed it to Jungkook without explanation. “The blessed voicebox,” he said. “There’s a pattern. There’s always a pattern.”

Jungkook didn’t argue. Just nodded and kept moving.

And then she appeared.

Not stepping from the dark—part of it. Like the shadows had made space for her. Imelda.

“You’ve been blind too long, Jungkook,” she said.

Then the pain hit.

It didn’t ease in—it slammed through him. A white-hot surge behind his eyes, then a crackling line of fire down his spine. His knees buckled. He hit the floor hard, hands scraping against cold stone, teeth clenched tight as every muscle in his body locked. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. It was like being electrocuted from the inside out, but sharper. Cleaner. More personal. Like the pain knew him.

And then, just as fast as it came, it started to fade—leaving behind a ringing in his ears, a trembling in his bones, and a kind of stunned clarity.

He blinked, slow and cautious. The world didn’t look the same anymore. It didn’t just brighten—it sharpened. Depth. Heat. Shadows that used to swallow everything now showed their layers. Textures shimmered where there used to be black. He could see details in the dark, outlines and movement. He could feel something shift inside him—like his senses had caught up to the threat they’d always known was coming.

He turned to Coins, eyes narrowed. “Did you do this?”

Coins looked hurt. Not surprised—hurt. Like the accusation itself stung more than any blow. “I only stitched your arm.”

No time for more.

Screeches echoed through the tunnels, guttural and rising. Something shifted in the sludge behind them—wet movement, fast. He didn’t wait. He ran.

The tunnels narrowed as they twisted upward, the air thick with rot, every surface slick. The grates beneath his boots groaned with every step, but he didn’t slow down. His shotgun did the talking now, each blast a punctuation mark, clearing the path. His eyes cut through the dark like it wasn’t even there.

He felt the change in the air as he climbed. It was cleaner. Thinner. Sharp with cold. His chest ached from the sprint, but it didn’t matter—freedom was close enough to taste. For the first time since being dropped into this hell, he didn’t feel cornered. He felt like the one with the advantage.

He remembered the weight of the manhole cover as it groaned open, rust clinging to its hinges. Cold air rushed in and slapped him in the face. It smelled of bleach and steam, sterile and sharp. He pulled himself up onto tile—white, too clean to feel real. Lights flickered above him, buzzing, mechanical. Water dripped nearby, steady and indifferent.

He knew that smell. Didn’t need to think about it.

Sterile metal. Disinfectant. Soap.

Guards’ quarters.

He stood up slowly, taking it in. After so much time underground, the place felt alien. Too ordered. Too quiet. He moved cautiously, expecting something to break the silence. Nothing did. That was somehow worse.

Then he saw it. Sitting there like it had been left for him: a uniform. Folded—not neatly, but purposefully. No name on the patch. Just cloth, slightly worn, anonymous.

He didn’t waste time wondering who had left it or why. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was here.

He stripped fast, peeling off the sweat-soaked jumpsuit like he was shedding skin. The guard uniform didn’t fit quite right. The boots were a size off. The collar scratched. None of it mattered.

He pulled it all on and stepped out into the hallway.

The trick was in the walk. Shoulders squared, eyes straight ahead, just enough swagger to look like he belonged, but not enough to stand out. He kept his pace even. Measured. He knew this place now. Every turn. Every corner. Every camera and checkpoint. The layout lived in his bones.

He also knew who could unlock the spaceport.

Dante Abbott.

Just the name turned his stomach, but he didn’t slow. The cost didn’t matter anymore. Not after the Pit. Not after everything he’d had to become.

He reached the office, pressed the buzzer. His voice was low, calm. “Delivery for you, sir.”

A pause. Then the lock clicked.

Abbott stood in the doorway, distracted, half-turned, not even looking up.

It was all Jungkook needed.

The pistol was already in his hand.

The first shot cracked like a thunderclap. Drywall exploded. Sparks flew from a control panel. Abbott dropped behind his desk, returning fire blind. Bullets tore through the narrow space, punched holes in walls, split the silence into chaos. A picture frame shattered beside Jungkook’s head. Gunpowder stung his nose, hot and sharp.

Then: quiet.

Abbott was down. On the floor. Groaning. Bleeding.

He reached for his weapon, but the strength wasn’t there. Jungkook stepped forward, pistol steady, face hard. His whole body trembled—not from fear, not exactly. It was the buildup, the release, the simple gravity of it all crashing at once. He knelt beside Abbott, raising the gun.

And then—

“Stop!”

A hand struck his wrist. The gun spun across the floor.

He turned, shocked.

Lee stood in the doorway.

Her eyes burned. Her mouth didn’t move, but her face said everything—disbelief, fury, betrayal. She looked between him and Abbott, saw exactly what had happened. And she didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

The silence hit harder than a scream.

No one moved. No one breathed.

Abbott wheezed behind them. Lee stared, motionless. Jungkook hovered in that moment like it might not be real. Like the world hadn’t just cracked in half.

He wanted to finish it. Wanted to explain. Wanted to vanish.

But all he could do was stand there. Caught. Burning.

And then—

Everything went black.

He woke up with his arms wrenched behind him, wrists bound tight. His head throbbed. The air was wet, cold. He didn’t need to see the walls to know where he was.

Double-max.

The place where inmates went to disappear. Where names stopped mattering. Where time didn't move. Guards hadn’t said a word dragging him in. Just shoved him through metal doors, deeper into the dark. He remembered the sting of the floor against his bare feet. The way they gripped their weapons like they were hoping he’d try something. The smirks. The silence.

And underneath all of it, her voice echoed.

You have fury inside. You're not done.

She was right.

Down here, survival wasn’t a goal. It was a rule. A constant test. The fights never stopped. You earned space with blood. Jungkook didn’t waste time. He watched. Learned. Adapted. He figured out who the real threats were, when to swing, and when to step aside. The ring wasn’t just a battleground—it was a place where he could remember what it felt like to be real.

The first match was ugly. He was rusty. Testing range, timing, weight.

But the second his fist connected with bone and the crowd roared—he remembered.

He wasn’t just an inmate anymore.

He was the storm inside the cage.

That’s when Bam showed up.

He wasn’t a prisoner. He was a guard. Tall. Solid. Dangerous. The kind of guy the crowd loved. The kind of guy who thought rules didn’t apply to him because he’d never needed them to.

He strutted into the cage like he’d already won.

But Jungkook didn’t flinch.

He was faster. Hungrier.

And when it was over, Bam wasn’t moving. His neck lay twisted, eyes open but unseeing, blood spreading in a slick halo beneath him.

The silence that followed was deep. Ugly. Final.

Then the guards were on him.

Hands everywhere. Orders shouted. He didn’t resist. They dragged him into a hallway he didn’t recognize. No cameras. No logs. A hallway that didn’t exist on the map.

The bleach hit first. Thick. Acrid. Meant to erase everything.

There were five of them.

Four guards. One leader.

Abbott.

Alive. Barely.

Scars down one side of his face. Eyes cold. A wooden bat in his hand, swinging slow and lazy like he had time.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Jungkook knew what came next.

He could already feel the first hit. Could already see how it would play out—how they’d break him until there was nothing left to bury.

But then—she spoke again.

Not out loud. Inside him. Threaded into his spine.

The fury of all your kind lives in you, she said. Release it.

And he did.

It wasn’t rage.

It was something older. Something deeper.

He screamed—and the room cracked open.

Not fire. Not light.

Force.

The guards hit the walls like they’d been thrown by a bomb. Limbs folding wrong. The bat spun out across the floor. Silence fell, broken only by the hum of fluorescent lights and Abbott’s ragged breathing.

Jungkook stood in the center of it, chest heaving, skin alive with heat.

Only Abbott moved, crouched behind an overturned table, eyes wide, mouth trembling.

Jungkook stepped toward him.

Still shaking. Still burning.

But alive. More than ever.

Jungkook remembered exactly how Abbott came at him—loud, reckless, no real technique. Just raw fury, like shouting would make up for the cracks already forming in his foundation. The swing was wide, predictable. Jungkook ducked under it, felt the air whip past his head, and countered without thinking. A knee slammed into Abbott’s gut, folding him, then an elbow cracked across the jaw, snapping the man’s head sideways. The third strike—a clean, brutal shot to the temple—took the rest of him. Whatever fire had driven Abbott in vanished in an instant. He hit the ground like a sack of wet sand and didn’t move. Not a twitch.

This time, it was clear. He wasn’t getting back up.

Jungkook stood over him, breathing hard, hands trembling. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe nerves, maybe something darker—something rotten working its way through his bloodstream, deeper with every kill, every step forward. He crouched and took the keycard off Abbott’s belt. His fingers felt colder than they should’ve. His mind was spinning, but his body moved like it was already past this moment. One instinct left: keep going. No time for guilt, no room for second thoughts. Survival didn’t care how much of yourself you had to throw away.

He never should’ve found that elevator. It was tucked behind rusted crates in a wing he hadn’t meant to enter. The panel was corroded, half-dead, barely readable. He didn’t expect it to work. Just pressed it out of habit, like maybe doing something would keep the quiet from settling too deep in his chest. But the light blinked on. And then the doors groaned open like the building itself had remembered something it wanted to forget.

The ride down felt wrong from the start. The air grew heavy, colder, as if the elevator was sinking into the earth’s marrow. When the doors opened, he stepped into something that didn’t feel like part of the prison anymore. The mining facility stretched out ahead of him—endless noise, machinery, smoke. Coal dust clung to the air, thick as fog. The lights overhead flickered in protest, and the whole place sounded like it was trying to tear itself apart, slowly.

That’s where Holt Fox found him.

He didn’t make threats. Didn’t try to posture. Just looked him over, calm and sharp, and asked, “You looking to die down here, or get out?”

They didn’t trust each other. Not at first. Everything between them was measured in glances, in silence, in the weight behind every word. But Holt had presence. The kind that made people listen. Even the guards gave him space. And more than that, Holt had ideas.

The mines, he said, were built on a promise of collapse. Barely held together. Years of patchwork and cheap fixes. One spark in the right place and it all would come down. Chaos would be their cover. They wouldn’t walk out clean, but they’d walk out. Maybe.

It was insane. That’s why it had a shot.

Jungkook was the one who found the leak—gas pooling behind a cracked wall, the smell thick and sour. He worked fast, fitting the bomb together with materials Holt had scrounged. His hands felt numb. Detached. Like he was watching himself from outside his own skin. The timer was set. Its soft ticking was almost soothing—something steady in a world about to shatter.

And then the alarms went off.

Voices shouted. Boots pounded above him. He barely had time to jam the bomb into place before they got to him. Rough hands tore him back, dragged him from the wall. No chance to check if the charge would even hold.

They threw him into a holding pen. Chain-link on all sides, bolted bench, bare concrete. A kennel, not a cell. The floor shook under his feet.

Then the world tore open.

The blast wasn’t just noise—it was pressure, sound that cracked the bones. Steel twisted, screamed, came undone. Dust turned the air to soup. Screams bled into each other, no way to tell if they were from guards, inmates, or something else.

And then they came.

Xeno.

Once a story inmates told to scare each other, now real. Claws, gleaming under the low light. Limbs slick and fast. The kind of creatures that didn’t move like anything that had evolved naturally. They tore through the chaos like it was made for them.

Jungkook barely kept on his feet. He staggered through the smoke, vision blurred, lungs burning. Holt appeared, grabbing his arm like they’d planned it this way. “Move,” he snapped.

And they did.

They ran through a nightmare—shadows flickering, gunfire echoing, inmates dying with their backs turned. The air reeked of blood and burning wires. And then, as if the universe had one more trick, she stepped in.

Lee.

Blocking their path like she'd been waiting the whole time. She didn’t speak. She attacked. The fight wasn’t clean. It wasn’t tactical. It was personal, ugly, years of buried things exploding all at once. Jungkook swung like he meant it. She hit back harder. They were trying to crack something in each other that hadn’t broken yet.

Then Holt fired.

Jungkook felt the burn along his shoulder. Hot. Shallow. But the bullet wasn’t for him. It hit Lee square. Her eyes widened. She collapsed, blood spreading out across the concrete in jagged blooms. She gasped. Once. Twice.

Jungkook turned to Holt, maybe to yell, maybe to say nothing. But there was no time.

The guards were already there.

No warnings. Just gunfire.

Holt dropped before he could move. A spray of red. His body hit the floor wrong, twisted. Jungkook lunged, but pain took over. The world swirled, legs gave out, and black boots slammed into his ribs. Hands dragged him down.

Darkness swallowed the rest.

The last thing he saw was Holt’s body, twitching once, then still. The blood. The smoke. The sound of everything falling apart around him.

Then came Batemen.

He woke in a sterile room, cold to his bones. Every part of him hurt. Inside hurt worse. Batemen stood across from him, expression carved from stone. No smirk. No gloating. Just a hard stare and a sneer that barely moved his mouth.

Jungkook looked up, blood in his throat, and muttered, “I’m just getting started.”

Batemen said nothing.

He sentenced him to triple-max.

Cryo.

They froze him. Locked him in a pod and buried him in ice. Every day, they thawed him just enough to make him walk in circles, body stiff, eyes glazed. Two minutes. Enough to stop the atrophy. Then back under.

No days. No nights. Just blinks of waking pain and the hum of machines.

But he didn’t break.

He watched. Counted. Memorized the blink of every overhead light, the rhythm of every guard’s boots, the flaws in their routine. And when it happened—a door that didn’t quite seal, a tired technician too lazy to double-check the logs—he moved.

One thaw. One crawl. Alarms still quiet. He slipped through a maintenance shaft, the cold still clawing at his limbs. Every breath hurt. Every step counted. But he made it across.

The mech was a fluke.

Parked in a dark bay. Half-dismantled. Wires spilled out of its side. It stank of oil, smoke, and abandonment. But it was massive. Ugly. Built for one thing.

He climbed in.

The cockpit stank of scorched oil and metal fatigue, and the mech itself felt like it could fall apart at any second. The controls were outdated—barely responsive, patched with whatever spare wiring someone had lying around. But once the damn thing moved, it didn’t matter. Steel screeched beneath its feet. Gunfire pinged harmlessly off its hull. Doors didn’t open—they bent, crumpled, gave way like paper under a hammer. Alarms wailed overhead, blaring warnings no one could answer. But Jungkook didn’t let up.

He wasn’t escaping anymore.

He was tearing the place down with him.

He barreled toward the final corridor, the narrow stretch leading to the tower—the one place they said no inmate would ever reach. Freedom lived just beyond that wall. He could feel it in his teeth. But the mech wasn’t going to get him there. The armor was cooked. Joints grinding. One more hit and it would seize up entirely.

So he jumped.

Climbed out of the cockpit with one arm already screaming in protest, shoulder torn from the last impact. He hit the ground running, legs unsteady, lungs shredding against each breath. Lights blew overhead, circuits popped. He barely noticed. His boots hammered against the tile like he was willing the hallway to collapse behind him.

He’d never forget the sound of that warzone—the alarms still howling, gunfire still ripping through the air, the walls blistered with heat. Every breath felt like a borrowed moment. Every step could’ve been the last.

And then he saw Lee.

Just standing there. Not panicked. Not even surprised. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting on a delayed train. He didn’t raise a gun. Didn’t say much.

“Jungkook,” he muttered, like a parent at the end of a long day. “Can we not? The warden’s not paying me enough to keep chasing you through explosions.”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. His ears were still catching every footfall behind him, every shout. But something in Lee’s voice—dry, unimpressed—cut through the adrenaline haze. He smirked. Just enough to show he’d heard. He gave a small nod. Not quite truce. But close enough for now.

Lee knew the place like it was his own bloodstream. Where the cameras blinked out. Which guards were half-asleep. Where the wiring buzzed two seconds before the hallway lit up. With him leading, they didn’t run—they flowed. Smooth and quiet. They slipped past a patrol that didn’t even know to look. Past a checkpoint where the guards were already reaching for radios that wouldn’t work in time.

The hangar bay opened up before them like a secret. Shadows flickered under emergency lighting, and there it was—their ship. A transport left behind in the madness, engines still idling like it hadn’t noticed the world was on fire.

Lee pointed at it, arching one brow. “There’s our ride.”

They didn’t waste a second. The ramp hissed as they boarded. Lee dropped into the pilot’s seat like he’d done it a thousand times. Systems flared to life. Jungkook felt the rumble under his boots, up through his legs and into his ribs.

It should’ve felt like the end.

But the display didn’t lie.

The course was set. Not for the hangar doors. Not for the stars.

Straight into the tower.

His gut flipped. Cold and instant. He turned to Lee, who was already checking the readings again, confusion sharp across his face. “What are you doing?” he asked, voice low and rising.

Jungkook didn’t explain.

He hit him.

One clean strike. Lee slumped forward in his harness, unconscious before the ship even shifted course. Jungkook slid into the pilot’s seat, fingers curling around the controls, jaw clenched. The tower loomed ahead—glass and steel and spite. The kind of place built by people who never thought it would fall.

He didn’t blink.

The ship roared forward.

The window didn’t stand a chance. It exploded inward, glass turning to glitter in the floodlights. They hit hard. Metal screamed. Consoles burst. The ship carved a trench through the office floor like a meteor through a cornfield.

Batemen had been standing behind his desk.

Now he was on the floor, crawling, choking on dust and disbelief.

“You... you’re insane!” he wheezed, coughing hard.

But Batemen wasn’t the problem.

The wall cracked open. Twin sentinels emerged, shimmer-cloaked, the light around them bending like heat. Jungkook barely had time to react.

One slammed into him, driving him across the room. His back hit steel. Pain radiated from his ribs. He gasped but didn’t drop the shard of wreckage still gripped in his hand.

The bot charged again.

He rolled, twisted, and drove the metal up into its undercarriage. Sparks flared, and the bot twitched, staggered, then fell with a clatter.

No time to breathe.

The second shimmer moved—flickered into focus behind him. He turned with the motion, pure reflex, and jammed the jagged edge into its neck. A whine, a flash of static—and it dropped.

The smoke crept in again, curling around their feet. The tower had gone still.

Batemen was on his knees now, hands raised, blood on his lip. “Alright! You win! You’ve won—take it. Take whatever you want. Just... just don’t kill me.”

“Codes,” Jungkook said, voice low and steady.

Batemen’s hands fumbled. A keycard. A black, palm-sized device. He held it out like it might save his life.

Jungkook took it. Didn’t flinch. His hands were steady.

Behind him, Lee stirred in the cockpit, groaning.

Jungkook stepped over to Batemen, locked the cuffs around the man’s wrists, then reached into the wreckage and pulled out a second pair. Snapped them around his own wrists—loose.

“We’re walking out of here,” Jungkook said, voice low but certain. “You’re my escort.”

Lee blinked, still dazed, pain flickering behind his eyes—but the meaning landed. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, slow and heavy.

They walked side by side, the tower bleeding smoke behind them. Glass crunched under their boots. Alarms wailed like ghosts. The lights overhead stuttered, shadows jumping with every flicker. The prison felt less like a structure now and more like something collapsing under its own weight. Whatever order had held Butcher Bay together was gone. If it wanted to stop them now, it would have to collapse completely.

Back in the warden’s office, the doors burst open. Guards poured in, weapons up, adrenaline spiked. Then they saw him—Batemen. Duct-taped gun on his chest. Jumpsuit. Bound hands.

They didn’t pause long enough to question it.

They did what they were trained to do.

The shots rang out, fast and brutal. Batemen dropped like meat on tile.

In the hangar, Jungkook heard the echo. He didn’t stop walking. He didn’t even blink. That was always going to be the cost. You didn’t come this far without giving something back. That had been the deal the moment he’d walked away and left Batemen cuffed and shaking in his own command chair.

Lee didn’t comment. Just climbed into the pilot’s seat, movements stiff but automatic. His hands were still sluggish from the hit Jungkook had landed earlier, but they worked. He keyed in the codes.

The system accepted them without hesitation.

The hangar doors peeled open.

No alarms. No one shouting. No one firing. For the first time since this all began, no one tried to stop them.

Jungkook slid into the co-pilot’s chair. His hand landed on the throttle, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—it didn’t shake. Just ahead was the black: stars, space, open sky that didn’t care who he was or what he’d done. Just distance.

He glanced over at Lee. The blood on his temple had dried to a crust. His face was unreadable, but his eyes weren’t hard.

Jungkook gave him a small, tired smile. No pride in it. Just relief.

Lee looked at him, gave a slight shrug in return. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something close enough. A truce, maybe. A shared understanding: we made it out.

The ship lifted clean. No resistance. No pursuit. Butcher Bay fell away behind them—just a crumbling scar on the surface of a forgotten moon.

Jungkook didn’t turn around.

He didn’t carry guilt. Not for Batemen. Not for the guards. Not even for the man he’d had to become to crawl out of that place. Butcher Bay had taken things from him. Carved him open. Left pieces of him scattered in cages and under bloodstained lights. What was left—what had made it out—had earned the right to fly.

That night, when the stars leveled out and the hum of the engine dulled to a lullaby, sleep came for him like it hadn’t in years. No footsteps behind walls. No screams. No cold steel bars rattling in his chest. Just silence. A real one.

And in that quiet, he felt her again.

Imelda.

Not as a voice. Not as a vision. Just a weightless presence. Something that hovered near, watching—not judging, not guiding. Just... there. A flicker of shadow wrapped in something that almost resembled light.

When he woke, his eyes throbbed with that cold ache again. That feeling like something old and buried had settled behind them, permanent now. Whatever had changed him—whatever she’d awakened in the dark—it was awake too.

It wasn’t going back to sleep.

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, grounding himself in the present. The cold bit at his skin, sharp and honest. He looked down at the half-gutted animal in front of him and shook his head, scoffing under his breath.

“Waste of my fucking time,” he muttered, standing up and reaching for the blade again.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The cold didn’t bite anymore—it simply was. Like gravity or breath. Jungkook didn’t brace against it or curse it under his breath. He let it pass through him, like wind through the ribs of a ruin. Out here on U.V.6, cold wasn’t the enemy. It was the environment. It told the truth, and it told it without mercy. You didn’t make friends with it. You didn’t fight it. You adapted or you didn’t last. Simple math.

He’d lasted five years.

He moved along the ridge, low and steady, wrapped in a patchwork of stitched furs and hardened muscle. The snow made no sound beneath him. It rarely did anymore. It had settled into something more like dust than powder—fine, packed, patient. He scanned the flats below without moving his head, only his eyes tracking the shimmer of fur just past a stretch of broken ice. Three of them. Broad, heavy, tusks dragging trenches through the snow. Big enough to feed him for weeks if he could take one down without ruining the meat. One at the back limped a little, lighter frame, slower. That was the one.

He dropped flat, unslung the harpoon gun from across his back. It was a rough thing—bolted together from old piping, ship steel, and bone—but it hit like a train if you lined it up right. He settled into the shot, breath slowing, the cold momentarily forgotten. This was the part that made sense. The part that cleared everything else away.

The shot cracked like splintering wood. The bolt punched into the beast’s side. It went down with a scream—high, piercing, not meant for this world—and kicked up a storm of snow trying to rise. The others scattered into the white. Jungkook was already moving.

He hit the slope in a sprint, boots digging in, breath burning but controlled. The harpoon gun was back on his shoulder, knife in hand before the first step. He didn’t think about the pain in his shoulder or the cold stinging his fingers. The beast thrashed, blood a thick ribbon in the snow, but he was on it before it could find its footing. One clean motion, honed from repetition. The blade opened its throat. The sound stopped mid-scream.

Steam curled from the open wound. He stood there, breathing hard, the knife still in his grip. For a second, there was nothing but the crackle of settling ice and his own heartbeat slowing.

Then the names came. Like they always did.

Namjoon. Leo.

He didn’t speak them aloud. He never did. But they landed in his head like footsteps. Namjoon, the gravity that kept them together, even when everything else fell apart. Leo, bright and sharp like a flare you couldn’t turn your eyes from. She’d pulled the trigger on Youngblood that day. He never told her to. Never would’ve asked. But she had. Too young to carry something like that, too raw to pretend it hadn’t changed her. That’s what kept him up most nights.

He remembered Namjoon’s look afterward—not anger. Just a question he didn’t want to ask. A silent plea: what are we becoming?

Jungkook had already known. Leo was becoming him. And that’s why he left.

Helion Prime gave them enough distance. A chance to breathe. He made sure they were safe, far from his orbit. Far from the kind of men who came looking for him with knives and bounties and words like “dead or alive” spoken without hesitation. He didn’t want her carrying his sins. Didn’t want Namjoon watching it happen.

So he vanished. Let them believe it was the end of something. Maybe it was.

Five years on U.V.6. He learned its seasons, its rules. The times when the sky cracked open and fire spilled out, when the snow turned brittle and the ice became teeth. He mapped paths by hand, carved markers into stone, learned how the beasts moved. He tracked the migrations, logged kill zones. This place didn’t offer forgiveness or comfort—but it didn’t lie, either. He could live with that.

He hauled the carcass over his shoulder. The blood stiffened as it hit the air. His cloak was layered in stains and stitched hides, the kind you stopped noticing after year two. His hands were lined with old cuts, callused like old bark. He wasn’t warm, but he was alive.

The cave came into view—wedged into the side of a ridge, disguised beneath snow and salvage. He’d fortified it with ship panels and old reactor plating. The power core barely kept the chill out, but that wasn’t the point. It was shelter. And it was his.

Inside, he dropped the body, already switching gears. Cut, bleed, salt. The blade moved like a thought—quick, practical. No reverence in it. Just habit. He cleaned it, sat back, stared into the fire.

And still, she found him.

Imelda’s voice wasn’t a sound. Not exactly. More like a presence, like the temperature shifted just enough to make the hair on his neck lift. You can’t keep running from what you are.

He didn’t answer. Just flexed his fingers around the handle of the knife.

He didn’t want to be found. Didn’t want to go back. But if what she said was coming—if it could make Butcher Bay look like a warm-up—then maybe solitude wouldn’t be enough to save him.

Not yet, though.

There was meat to cure. Weapons to check. Another hunt tomorrow. Maybe two.

He survived because he understood what the world wanted from him. He didn’t pretend to be anything else. Out here, he wasn’t a legend or a fugitive. Just a man with a knife, a map, and a heartbeat that hadn’t stopped yet.

The cold pressed in, but it didn’t move him. He moved through it like part of the storm.

And tomorrow, he’d bleed the snow again. Just to prove he was still here.

He sorted the organs into crates without hesitation—some packed for salting, others labeled with crude tags for traps. The liver would keep well, the sacs could bait predators if the winter ran long. The hide went next, stretched tight across the wire frame by the fire. It would dry by morning, stiff and ready for sewing. Probably a new boot, maybe a sling. He hadn’t decided. The meat he sliced into long, even strips, laying them across the drying rack until they sizzled and popped. Fat hissed over the flame, droplets hitting the coals with sharp, angry snaps. His hands kept moving, always ahead of the thoughts he refused to let catch up. That was the point. That was always the point.

He didn’t think about Imelda. Not where she went. Not why she showed up at all. He’d stopped asking the moment he realized she never stayed long enough to explain. She didn’t speak in full answers—just riddles, warnings, absences. And that was the danger of her. Not what she said. What she left behind. It was the wondering that hurt. The questions that snuck in when the silence got too quiet. So he didn’t wonder. Didn’t care. Because the moment you started caring, it found a way in. Cracks widened. Thoughts slipped through. And thoughts, eventually, killed.

He didn’t think about Leo either. Or Namjoon. Especially not the way Namjoon had looked at him that day—not scared, not angry. Worse. Disappointed. That kind of look didn’t fade. It just nested somewhere behind the ribs and waited. Leo’s hands had shaken after she pulled that trigger. She’d hidden it well, tried to act tough, but he’d seen it. That stutter in her breath. That silence too long to be steady. She hadn’t been ready to cross that line—but she had, because of him.

He’d left to protect them. That part hadn’t changed. He’d told himself that a thousand times, repeated it like a mantra, carved it into the walls of his head until it stuck. And it had to be true. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t, then what the hell had he done it for?

Still, the memory sat in his chest like a stone. Cold. Heavy. Unmoved.

He wiped the blood from his blade, shoved it into the sheath hard enough to make the leather creak, and rolled his shoulders. The tension there never went away. His muscles coiled beneath the furs, stiff and knotted from cold and habit. His breath escaped rough and uneven. Too loud. Too sharp. Too human.

The feelings were always waiting. Just outside the door. Patient. Knowing. They didn’t come in when he was strong—they waited for the slip. The misstep. The exhaustion. They clawed at the edges when he was too tired to fight them off. That’s what he hated most about them. The timing. The relentlessness. The way they knew exactly when to knock.

He hated them for coming back.

Hated himself more for ever letting them get that close.

He reached for the flask—carved from bone, sealed with old cloth—and took a deep pull of the stuff he’d brewed last month. It hit like it always did: raw fire, bitter smoke, the unmistakable taste of desperation. It burned all the way down. Good. Let it burn.

Then he dragged the next carcass into the light, reset the table, and pulled the knife again.

Skin. Gut. Cure. Store.

The rhythm had weight. It had purpose. It made sense when nothing else did. There was no trick to it. No betrayal. Just the clean brutality of the work. Honest in its own way.

Outside, the storm screamed against the cliffs, flinging ice and wind in every direction like it was trying to break something. Inside, the fire popped and danced, the heat barely enough to hold the cold at bay. The air stank of grease, iron, cooked meat, and smoke. It clung to everything.

Jungkook didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Didn’t hope. He just worked, because that’s what he did best.

The ice lair was dead in a way that felt intentional. Not just quiet—hollow. As if something had reached into the world and pulled the sound out by the roots. It didn’t settle like regular silence. It pressed in, thick and weighty, as if even a whisper might offend whatever lived here. Against the far wall, the body of an Urzo Giganticus hung limp, impaled and splayed like a trophy on display. Its huge form had been opened from throat to belly, limbs arranged almost ceremonially. Too clean to be a feeding ground. Too precise for an accident. Blood ran in slow lines over the pale blue ice, red as ribbon and just as deliberate. It hit the floor in a soft, steady patter—measured, like a ticking clock.

Just a few feet away, the body of King dangled from a matching set of hooks. He was frozen mid-scream, eyes wide, mouth locked open. His body bore the same marks—flayed, strung up, emptied of everything that once made him loud, proud, and alive. Whatever had done this hadn’t seen a difference between man and monster. Both had been broken the same way.

Jungkook didn’t rush. There was no point. Speed didn’t matter if you didn’t make it to the next step. He moved carefully, one step at a time, boots quiet on the slick floor, back low, head turning in smooth sweeps as he checked the walls, the ceiling, the snowdrifts ahead. The cold bit at his jaw, scraped at the exposed skin beneath his goggles, but he didn’t react. The discomfort was background noise now. He kept his focus on the space itself—the details that didn’t belong. Something about the layout was off. The kills weren’t random. They were arranged. There was thought in the carnage. Ritual. Message.

His hand dipped into his coat and came back with the ship-finder. The device buzzed faintly, the light on its face flickering a dull blue as it scanned for the signal. A moment passed. Then a blip. He flipped the switch. The snow a few feet ahead cracked and sloughed away, revealing the outline of a buried skimmer—a merc-class scout ship, half-frozen, low profile and jagged-edged, built to disappear into terrain just like this. It was barely visible until it wasn’t. A ghost that had waited too long to be remembered.

Above them, the wind screamed.

Not the kind of howl you heard in mountains or open plains—this was tighter, angrier. It clawed through the atmosphere, dragging chunks of frozen air in sharp gusts that scoured the landscape. Ice blew in sheets. Visibility blinked in and out like faulty lighting. The only solid things on this godforsaken planet were the black spears of ancient ice that jutted out of the snow like bones, and the ultraviolet glow that pulsed through the sky in short, eerie flickers. U.V.6 didn’t behave like a planet. It behaved like a place that never wanted to be found.

Codd pushed through it like he was walking into a fight. Shoulders low, body angled, shotgun tight in his grip. His eyes scanned constantly, his breath hissing from between clenched teeth and disappearing into the cold. His steps were slow and deliberate, boots crunching against the brittle crust of ice with every shift in weight. He stopped suddenly. Squatted.

Blood.

Bright purple. Not frozen. Not old. He pulled the sniffer from his belt and held it just above the spatter. It blinked. The screen spat back data: bipedal, fanged, cloaked in dense fur. Urzo Giganticus.

“Bullshit,” Codd muttered, half to the scanner, half to himself. That species was long extinct—catalogued, confirmed, and gone. But the reading was clean. Fresh.

His comms buzzed. Static, then: “Whatcha got, Doc-T?”

He didn’t answer right away. The blood trail widened, spread into a splatter, then into something worse. His foot dipped suddenly into a print so wide it nearly swallowed his boot. Not a print. A pit. Then instinct punched him in the gut.

He was being watched.

“Hey,” he said into the radio, voice calm but clipped. “You remember that thing that’s supposed to be dead? Yeah. It’s not. Watch your spine.”

The last word barely cleared his mouth when the hit came. No warning. Just movement—silent and enormous—and a fist or claw or something worse slammed into his side like a car crash. He flew. Skidded across the ice. Vision full of white fur and teeth and muscle. Then nothing.

Miles away, Witt gripped his mic like it might answer his questions if he just squeezed hard enough. “Doc-T? Say again. Codd, you reading?” Static. Again. Still nothing. The air around him was too quiet. Not just missing sound—waiting.

The terrain sloped upward into a massive frozen wall, sheer and iridescent, like a glacier that had been polished by time and violence. Shadows shifted behind it. Then he saw it—movement. A face, pale, motionless, staring through the ice. Human. Still.

His rifle barked before his brain caught up. The shot shattered the ice in a blast of echoing thunder, shards raining down in a blizzard of glass-like snow. Witt rushed forward, heart slamming in his throat—but there was no body. Just space. A hollowed-out tunnel where light didn’t reach.

And then the smell hit.

Copper. Foul. Rot. The stink of something killed and kept and left too long.

The cave inside was a mess of bones, meat, and equipment arranged with precision. A pot boiled near the back wall. Something unidentifiable festered inside it. Nearby, rigging made of old cables and hooks held what was left of an Urzo—quartered, flayed, hung like a butcher’s display. The edges of the scene were too clean to be random.

And in the corner, slumped against the stone, was Codd. Alive—barely. Wrists bound. Skin pale. Eyes cracked open just enough to speak one thing.

“Behind you…”

Witt spun, raised his rifle—but he was too slow. The blur hit him like a boulder wrapped in teeth. He fired wild, flashes lighting the cavern like lightning, each shot revealing fragments of movement, claws, jaws, shadows that didn’t quite make sense. He stumbled backward, boots sliding over ice, chest heaving as he neared the edge of the ledge outside.

And then the boots landed in front of him.

Huge. Blood-caked. Quiet.

Jungkook Jeon emerged from the dark like something built to survive it. He didn’t speak. Just crouched, slow and easy, goggles hiding most of his face. The only thing visible were his eyes—still, black, and bottomless. He reached into a pouch, pulled out something small.

An ear.

Frozen. Human. Familiar.

He held it up like a question he already knew the answer to.

“Yours?”

Witt couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His hands lost their grip. The edge gave way.

And as he fell into the abyss, the last thing he heard was Jungkook’s laugh—quiet and cruel, unraveling into the wind like smoke.

Silence dropped over the cliff like a weight—dense, unmoving, absolute. Not the kind that settles, but the kind that stays behind after something final. Jungkook stayed crouched near the edge, watching the place where Witt had vanished into the void. The wind whipped at his coat, snow swirling hard enough to sting, but he didn’t blink. He still held the ear, frozen stiff between his fingers, then slipped it back into his pack like a keepsake—tucked away, not forgotten.

He rose slowly, his body steady, breathing even. The snow picked up again, sweeping across the ridge in jagged curtains of white. Behind him, the half-buried skimmer groaned under the pressure of the cold, its hull flexing and creaking like it was trying to exhale. But Jungkook wasn’t listening to the ship. His head tilted just slightly, tracking something else.

Movement.

It came like a shift in the wind—too soft to be noise, too sharp to be weather. Footsteps. Subtle. Coordinated. He didn’t need to see them to know what they were. Mercenaries. Trained, paid, geared-up with pulse rifles and target designations. They didn’t stumble. They didn’t call out. They moved like a pack that thought it had teeth sharp enough to bite.

He smiled.

It wasn’t amusement, not really. It was memory. Familiarity. Like seeing a song come back on after years of static. He hadn’t seen a new face in months—hadn’t had a reason to move fast in even longer. The days had bled into each other in shades of gray and blood and bone. But now? Now it felt like the world was kicking back into motion, like something was finally worth running toward… or through.

He moved without hesitation, feet barely making sound as he slipped from the ridge. The wind didn’t hide him; it obeyed him. His body cut through it in long, clean strides. His breath fogged the air but never broke rhythm. Not adrenaline—excitement. The kind that stirred deep in his chest, where the cold couldn’t reach.

He ran.

Not because they saw him. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to. The game was real again.

Jungkook vanished into the landscape like he'd never been there, sliding behind columns of frozen stone, beneath shelves of brittle ice. He knew every line of this land. Knew how to move through it without being touched, how to let the storm eat his scent and the shadows carry his breath. The mercs didn’t understand where they were. They brought tech and firepower, but they hadn’t brought fear. And that meant they hadn’t brought respect.

They thought they were hunting a man.

They hadn’t realized they’d walked straight into his mouth.

Behind him, the skimmer tore through the storm, its engine screaming against the wind like it was already breaking. The pilot fought the weather more than the terrain, dipping low, too low, engines kicking up waves of powder that blinded every camera they had. Inside, panic was starting to settle in beneath the bravado. The comms were a mess—half static, half shouting.

“Steady—steady—take it!” King’s voice snapped over the channel, sharp and biting, but it didn’t hide the strain.

Gunfire rattled through the whiteout. Wild, desperate. Too late.

Jungkook was already gone.

One of the mercs cursed loud enough to cut through the static. “He’s gone—again!”

“King, we’re runnin’ outta road!” another voice broke in, cracking around the edges. The skimmer’s hull shrieked as it scraped along another ice ridge, the sound pure metal agony. The entire craft shuddered, fighting to stay level.

King was trying to control the chaos, but it was slipping. “Shut up!” he barked, smacking his hand against the console. “I got it!” But his voice had lost its teeth. He was talking more to himself now than anyone else.

The terrain rolled beneath them in jagged drops and sudden rises—an endless field of broken teeth. King’s eyes tracked the screen like a gambler watching the last spin. “Now!” he yelled. No order. Just desperation.

Then a sound cut through the open comm. Not static. Not human. A growl—low, resonant, close enough to hum through the floor panels. One of the men let out a sharp, choked noise. Not a scream. Not yet.

“King…” came a voice over the line. Barely there. A wheeze.

King didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. Everyone knew what it meant.

It was Jungkook.

The storm outside flashed with light, but it wasn’t lightning. It was movement—fast, white, and too smooth to be natural. Tags leaned into the viewport, jaw tight. “I don’t know, man… looks tight ahead.”

King didn’t miss a beat. “Not from where I’m sittin’.” His words snapped like a whip, trying to keep everyone’s courage from unraveling. “Biggest payday we’ll ever see. So throw on a fresh pair of panties and lock in.”

But even he was feeling it now. The cold didn’t care about money. The ice didn’t care about promises. And this man they were chasing? He wasn’t running anymore. He was leading them.

King’s tone sharpened. “Three meters port, one and a half starboard. Choke point coming up.”

And then, another growl—closer.

He turned toward his crew. “What the hell was that?”

Someone on comms stammered, “Tags, you got eyes on Jungkook?”

Static.

Then: “Jesus…” It was a whisper. “He ghosted two of ours. I never even saw him.”

King’s jaw clenched. It wasn’t fear that filled the space behind his eyes—it was fury. Cold and sharp. “You think I’m gonna wait for him to do it again?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He shoved a heavy weapon into the chest of the nearest crewman, voice low and cracked with exhaustion and rage. “You’re my new gunner. Stay on him.”

But they were already too late.

Jungkook was aboard.

He moved through the skimmer’s bridge like the storm itself—invisible until it was already inside. The steel didn’t groan. The lights didn’t flicker. Nothing betrayed him except the stillness he carried with him, the sudden weight of presence that made the room feel colder.

King turned. He was the last one left. Alone. Standing in the middle of his ship like it still belonged to him.

His hands twitched. His breath rattled in his chest. His eyes scanned, but they didn’t need to.

Jungkook was already there.

Their eyes met, and in that single, held breath, King stopped moving. Really stopped. His bravado cracked—not in a dramatic collapse, but in that slow, creeping way fear takes root when you realize the thing you’re looking at isn’t just dangerous. It’s inevitable. Recognition passed across his face like a shadow—he’d always known Jungkook was trouble, sure, but he’d never understood it like this. This wasn’t just a man with a bounty. This wasn’t someone you outsmarted or outfought. This was the thing that showed up when your plans failed, when your weapons jammed, when everything you trusted turned useless in your hands. Jungkook wasn’t the prize. He was the punishment.

Jungkook’s steps were unhurried, casual in that quiet, measured way people walk when they’re not worried about the outcome. His voice, when it came, was low and calm, almost conversational—but it carried the kind of weight that made your lungs feel too small. “You made three mistakes,” he said.

King didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His jaw tightened as his breath shortened, but he stayed frozen in place, like movement might trigger something worse.

“First,” Jungkook said, stopping just close enough to make the distance feel like a threat, “you took the job.”

The second came with a tilt of the head, not angry, just cold. “Second—you came light. Four-man crew? For me?” His lips twisted into something that might’ve been a smile if it hadn’t been so devoid of warmth. “Fucking insulting.”

King’s mouth twitched. Not speech, not yet—just the flicker of a man realizing he’d brought a knife to a flood.

Jungkook didn’t press forward, didn’t raise a weapon. He didn’t need to. “And the third…” He nodded toward the empty weapons rack bolted to the wall. “You left that empty.”

The words hit harder than a bullet. King’s fists curled instinctively, like he was trying to grip some kind of control, but there was nothing left to grab. He couldn’t bluff, couldn’t pivot. The room had narrowed to one person, one presence, and it wasn’t his.

Jungkook studied him for a long second—just long enough to let the dread settle deep. Then, without warning, King moved.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t smart. It was the kind of motion that came from pure panic—the kind of lunge that hoped momentum would carry the body past the truth. But it didn’t. Jungkook stepped through it like it wasn’t even there. One hand twisted King’s arm behind his back; the other drove a knee straight into the base of his spine. The impact sent King sprawling, a guttural wheeze punched from his lungs as his face slammed into the deck.

He tried to rise, but Jungkook was already there, dropping a knee between his shoulders and pressing down with the full weight of someone who didn’t see the need to hurry. King grunted, twisting, reaching—trying anything—but it was like wrestling a glacier. The pressure on his neck sharpened until the only thing he could think about was oxygen and the lack of it.

“Not so fast now, are you?” Jungkook said quietly, as if they were sharing a private joke. He wrenched the arm higher, watching King strain against the pain. “You were so eager back there. Don’t freeze up now.”

King coughed, a wet, choking sound. His legs kicked once, then just twitched. His vision pulsed at the edges, black creeping in with every shallow breath. His body was burning and freezing all at once, his heartbeat erratic, limbs going numb.

Then—relief. Just a sliver. The weight shifted enough for air to rush in, rough and biting. King gasped, a sound like drowning.

Jungkook didn’t move away. He leaned in instead, voice even quieter now, almost gentle. “What’s the bounty?”

King coughed again, blood mixing with spit. His words came like gravel dragged across metal. “One mil…”

Jungkook’s face barely moved, but something in him coiled tighter. Not anger. Not surprise. Just something cold getting colder. “That’s it?” he said, soft and sharp like a razor dipped in ice. He didn’t wait for clarification.

The next moment came fast.

He drove King’s head back into the deck with brutal precision. No wind-up, no hesitation—just the sound of bone on steel, loud and final. King groaned, the noise muffled by the floor, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth in lazy threads.

“One-point-five,” he whispered after a beat, like it might matter. It didn’t sound like a defense. It sounded like a wish.

Jungkook’s gaze narrowed. There was no real reaction in his face—no flicker of humor or cruelty. Just calculation. And something older, deeper. A kind of disbelief that wasn’t quite disbelief—because he already knew the number didn’t matter. Not really. The price wasn’t the point.

His voice barely rose above a breath. “What slam pays that much for one convict?”

He wasn’t asking because he didn’t know. He was asking because he did—and he wanted to hear it said out loud.

“Private party,” King stammered, his voice catching like ice in his throat. The panic was slipping through now—thick and obvious, no way to stuff it back down. Jungkook didn’t blink. He slammed King’s head into the deck again, harder this time. Something in King’s face gave—cartilage or bone, it didn’t matter. The sound was sharp and wet. Blood sprayed in a bright arc and hit the floor with a hiss, steaming where it touched cold steel.

King gasped, coughing through broken teeth and the metallic flood in his mouth. He tried to lift himself, but the effort barely moved him. The pain was everywhere now, deep and rooted, stretching out from his spine like cracked glass. Jungkook’s knee came down again, grinding between his shoulder blades, flattening him like a pinned specimen.

He leaned in close. King felt the breath at his ear—hot, steady, too calm. “Hey, hey, easy,” he rasped, the words tumbling out, messy and scared. “Anonymous, man. That’s all I know. Sheet said anonymous.” He was scrambling now, trying to get ahead of the pain, of the next move he knew was coming.

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t shift. His voice dropped, quiet enough that King had to strain through the ringing in his head to hear it. “What planet?”

And that—that was the one that did it. Not the knee. Not the blood. That question. It broke something deeper than bone. King hesitated, just for a second, but it was enough. Jungkook felt it. The silence that followed hit harder than the blows.

King’s breath hitched once, a stuttering intake like his lungs had to decide whether they wanted to keep going. “Helion Prime,” he said. Just two words, small and empty and soaked in defeat.

Jungkook didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him—really looked at him. Not like prey, not like some job, but like he was seeing the full shape of the mess now. The name sat there in the space between them, fouling the air. And then something shifted in his eyes. Not rage. Not shock. Just clarity. Cold and exact.

He stood slowly, the scrape of his boots on metal dragging out longer than it needed to. King tried to lift his head, eyes swimming with red and white spots, his breath thin. Jungkook was already turning away.

“Where you going?” King rasped. He tried to sit up, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. He could feel the blood now, sticky beneath him, cooling fast. “Hey—hey—what are you doing?”

Jungkook didn’t look back. He just kept walking, the calm in his posture somehow louder than yelling. “Last question,” he said, almost to himself. “And you better get this one right, King.”

King blinked, dazed. His stomach rolled. The words hit harder than any punch. He tried to steady his voice, but it came out thin and broken. “Whose ship is this?”

That stopped him. For just a second. The air felt sharper now, tighter.

King looked around like he might find the answer taped to a wall or hiding in the wiring. There was nothing. Nothing that would save him. He swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. “Mine?” he said.

Jungkook turned.

There wasn’t a pause or a warning. His hand closed around King’s collar and yanked him up like dead weight, boots dragging across the floor. King’s eyes went wide. He kicked once, twice, more instinct than strategy. It didn’t matter.

The airlock door opened with a low, heavy groan, the seals pulling apart like they hated it. Jungkook didn’t say anything. He didn’t curse. Didn’t threaten. He just tossed King forward like garbage. A casual, practiced motion.

King hit the threshold, arms flailing, and then the door finished its cycle. The vacuum caught him mid-scream and ripped the sound away.

The lock sealed behind him. Just a thump. Then silence.

Jungkook stood still for a moment, just breathing. Not heavy. Not fast. Just steady. He wiped his hands on his coat, slow, like he was scrubbing off more than just blood—like he was erasing the last few minutes. Then he looked through the viewport. King was still out there, tumbling, limbs twitching in that awkward, twitchy way bodies moved when they didn’t realize they were done.

Jungkook didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He watched until the shape disappeared completely, swallowed by the dark.

Then, almost under his breath, he said, “Tough shit.”

He turned from the viewport and let his eyes scan the bridge. The consoles were dim, edges streaked with blood, dust caught in the corners. The kind of grime that built up over long hauls and longer silences. The crew was gone—he didn’t need to check. The quiet had that final weight to it, like the room was still listening for voices that would never come back. His fingers hovered over the controls for a moment, then moved. No hesitation. He flipped switches, keyed in commands. The ship didn’t resist. It came alive under his hands like it had been waiting for someone who didn’t care how broken it was—someone who’d use it like a tool, not a home.

He dropped into the pilot’s seat. It groaned under his weight, but the frame held. He leaned back, feeling the vibration from the drive core hum through the floor and into his spine. Not a smooth engine, not a fast one. But strong. And running. That was enough. The seat was worn, molded by bodies that probably never left it until they died. Right now, it was his.

The core fired. The deck shuddered as the engine locked in. Something dislodged behind the bulkhead with a loud metallic knock, but Jungkook didn’t even glance back. His hands kept working. He keyed in coordinates, checked the nav grid, adjusted the trajectory. Familiar motions. Done by feel more than thought. The displays lit up in pale green and blue, flickering slightly like they were running on old juice. The ship wasn’t much—but it was moving. That was all that mattered.

For a while, he just sat there. No rush. No voice in his ear. Just the steady whine of a ship that was barely holding together and the faint, rhythmic pulse of its systems thudding through the floor. The lights dimmed automatically, shifting the cockpit into low-light mode, bathing everything in a washed-out orange glow. It made the dried blood look darker. He didn’t bother cleaning it up.

He leaned forward and tapped into the ship’s comms log. The archive loaded with a sluggish lag, then spilled its contents across the screen. Dispatch logs, job orders, kill markers. Mostly junk. But his name came up quick. "JEON, JUNGKOOK." In caps, flagged in red, stamped across multiple entries. Each one a variation on the same warning: Armed. Dangerous. Last seen here, seen there. No consistency, no timeline. Just chaos. The kind a ghost leaves behind.

He clicked into the payout list. His bounty lit the screen in a pale orange block. 1,500,000 U.D. He stared at the number. Not because it surprised him. It didn’t. He just hated the weight of it. It didn’t look like a price. It looked like a grudge.

He scrolled down. No origin tag. No government marker. Just two words beneath the payout field: PRIVATE PARTY.

He didn’t move. Just sat with that for a second. Let it sink in.

A long breath left him through his nose. He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. But something turned in his chest anyway. He reached for the protein bar on the dash, took one bite, chewed, then spat it out onto the floor. The taste was always bad, but right now, it felt like something else—like insult.

He opened the job file again, checking the source.

HELION PRIME. Region—NEW MECCA.

His jaw clenched. Of course. Of all the places to dig up old ghosts, they picked the one with cathedrals and warlords.

He muttered, mostly to himself, “Even holy men take a fee.”

It wasn’t a joke. But something in the shape of it almost sounded like one.

He leaned forward and punched the coordinates into the nav system. His fingers didn’t stop. No hesitation. No second guess. The ship shifted under him as the autopilot took over. The engine’s pitch dropped a little, the deep thrum settling into a cruising rhythm.

The forward shutter closed over the viewport. Stars gone. Just steel now, and numbers scrolling across the screen. He leaned back again, slow, letting the seat take his weight, muscles loosening one by one.

Helion Prime.

There was only one man left who could’ve told anyone where he was.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The days had stopped meaning anything. There was no clock out here, no rising sun, no fading dusk—just the slow, constant crawl of space pressing in from every side. Jungkook sat at the helm, unmoving except for the occasional shift in his shoulders or flick of a finger across a control pad. The ship had settled into a rhythm, a low mechanical hum pulsing through the floor and into his bones. It felt less like traveling and more like drifting through something dead. Time dragged. His muscles ached with stillness. His eyes stayed open, but they didn’t see much anymore.

The stars outside weren’t stars so much as streaks—light smeared across black as the ship kept pushing forward. On the nav-screen, a single planet pulsed red: FURYA. Closest destination. Known. Marked. And he didn’t move. Just stared at the name, the word hitting his chest harder than he liked to admit. Eventually, he leaned back, the pilot seat groaning as it took his weight, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Tubes hissed softly as they engaged, sliding their way into ports along his suit, a half-dozen points of contact where cold fluid started to pump into his veins. The stuff was synthetic—designed to keep your blood from freezing in long-haul drifts. It worked. Barely. It didn’t numb the ache in his joints or do a damn thing for the fatigue creeping under his skin. But it kept the body running. That was the job.

Eventually, sleep came. Not quickly. Not cleanly. It was more like falling into a ditch than lying down to rest. One moment he was watching Furya flicker on the screen, and the next he was somewhere else—somewhere older. In the dark of his mind, memories waited. They always did. Furya was flame and blood and the sound of things breaking. It wasn’t a place, not anymore. It was a wound. And when the memory opened up like it always did, something crawled out.

The voice hit first. Soft, female. Not part of the ship. Not part of the past either, not really. It came through the static in his brain like it belonged there. “They say most your brain shuts down in cryo-sleep...” Familiar. Wrong. Not a dream, but not reality either. It slid in sideways, just enough to raise every hair on his body. He shifted in his seat. Tried to brush it off. Didn’t work.

“…all but the animal side…”

His eyes snapped open. Still strapped in. Still in the cockpit. But something was wrong. The hum of the ship had changed. The lights felt off. The space around him seemed too still, like the vacuum outside had gotten in somehow. He turned his head slowly, scanning the shadows.

“…all but the primitive side.”

His hand went to his sidearm. He rose halfway from the chair, shoulders tight, heart kicking faster now. And then he saw it—caught in the reflection of the nav-screen. A shape. Behind him. Not just shadow. A figure. He spun, weapon drawn, already bracing for the fight.

And there she was.

Not ghost. Not flesh. Something in between. A woman, standing in the middle of the ship like she’d always been there, like the walls had peeled open and let her step through. She didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to. The ship itself began to shift, the cockpit flickering at the edges, like memory bleeding into metal. He smelled dirt. Heard the rustle of wind through dead trees. The floor creaked like gravel. There were gravestones. Broken branches. A world he’d tried to leave behind was waking up inside the one he was still in.

She stepped forward, and he didn’t lift his weapon. Couldn’t. Not because he was paralyzed with fear—he’d known fear—but because something in him already knew her. Imelda. The name didn’t need to be said. It filled the air. Her skin glowed faintly, as if something inside her was trying to burn its way out. Fire trapped behind ice.

“Think of it as a dream, if you need to,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud. But it filled the space like steam.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Her eyes locked on his, and he felt the pressure behind them—not anger. Not grief. Something older. Like she’d accepted the ending and just wanted him to know it was coming.

“Some know better,” she went on. “Some of us remember the true crime that happened on Furya.”

The words hit hard. Like impact trauma. They landed in his chest and stayed there. He felt his fingers tighten around the grip of the pistol, but he didn’t lift it. Couldn’t. Not with her so close. Not with the air like this—thick, electric. Wrong.

She raised her hand. Not fast. Not threatening. Just deliberate. Calm. And the glow got brighter. The edges of her fingers flickered with heat and memory. She wasn’t touching him. Not yet. But she didn’t have to. He knew what would happen if she did. Something in him would come apart.

“We’ll never have them back,” she said softly. “But we can have this world again. Someday.”

Her fingers hovered just above his chest. He didn’t breathe.

The ship convulsed.

No warning. No countdown. Just a violent, full-body lurch. The chair snapped forward. The restraints caught hard against his ribs. Lights exploded red. Sirens screamed. Metal groaned like it was tearing from the inside. The cockpit lit up like a firestorm, and for a second he didn’t know if he was awake or still inside the nightmare.

But Imelda was gone.

Only the ship remained—wailing, shaking, broken and real. And Jungkook, slammed back into the moment, had no choice but to move.

Jungkook’s eyes snapped open. His breath hitched, sharp and shallow, chest rising too fast as the last threads of sleep unraveled. He hadn’t really been sleeping—not in any way that mattered. It was more like drifting, weightless in the dark, held somewhere between dream and memory, the kind of place you didn’t climb out of so much as fall. But now he was awake, and something was wrong. He felt it instantly, deep in his gut before his brain even caught up.

The ship creaked around him. The inertial dampeners groaned in protest. A low warning chime blinked across the console, and the nav-clock jumped—really jumped. Weeks were gone. Whole weeks, like someone had torn pages out of time and thrown them out the airlock. He stared at the numbers for a moment, trying to make sense of the gap, but it didn’t matter. The time was lost. So was whatever he might’ve dreamed. And still, his chest felt warm. Too warm.

He looked down.

Just over his heart, faint but visible, something glowed. An outline, almost a handprint. Not a burn. Not a wound. But it pulsed, like it remembered being touched. He didn’t know what the hell it was. He didn’t have to. It faded quickly, disappearing into his skin, leaving him with nothing but the feeling that someone—or something—had been here. And now it wasn’t.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move for a long moment. Just listened to the quiet hum of the engines, the soft hiss of oxygen cycling, the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat trying to slow itself down. Then the comms crackled to life—thin, sharp, official.

“Repeating… all spaceports of Helion Prime are closed to flights that have not originated from this locale. Unauthorized craft are prohibited from landing. Infractors will be fired upon. Repeating…”

Jungkook didn’t even blink. Threats like that were background noise to him now. Static with teeth. He’d spent most of his life on the wrong side of warnings.

Then came the hit.

A sudden jolt slammed through the hull, hard enough to rattle the panels. The ship pitched sideways. Somewhere behind him, a vent blew open with a metallic shriek, and the windscreen shutters tore off with a scream of metal, yanked free by pressure shift. Cold air rushed in through hairline fractures along the cockpit seams, biting against his skin.

Outside, a sleek shadow cut across his vision—sharp angles, low flight profile, lights flaring under its belly. A fighter. Helion military. No question.

It hovered just off his port side, too close for comfort, wings spread wide, weapons hot. The pilot didn’t hail. He didn’t need to. One slow, unmistakable tilt of the wing said it all: land or die.

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed. His hands moved to the yoke, fingers wrapping around the grips with casual defiance. His mind ran the math—altitude, mass, descent speed. Doable. Tight, but doable.

He didn’t land.

He dropped.

The merc ship tilted nose-down without warning, engines howling in protest. He threw it into a dive, not because it was safer, but because it was faster. The fighter stayed on him, trying to match the drop, but Jungkook didn’t give it time to settle. He twisted hard to starboard, engines flaring, and let the ship whip underneath the fighter’s undercarriage.

The metal kissed.

Just a scrape—barely a love tap—but enough. The fighter spun out, overcorrected. Jungkook felt the vibration in his boots as it caught turbulence, its stabilizers flaring too late. Smoke peeled from its left side as it spiraled, trailing sparks down through the upper atmosphere. It wouldn’t crash, not yet, but it wasn’t in the fight anymore.

Jungkook exhaled, low and dry. “Never mess with a guy flying a borrowed ride,” he muttered.

He punched the throttle forward, and the merc ship leapt toward the planet. Helion Prime rushed up to meet him—broad and sun-washed, all gold and dust. Heat shimmered off the curve of its atmosphere, warping the edges of space.

He cut through it like a blade.

Beneath him, the sea unspooled like glass. Smooth, green, endless. Then—desert. Harsh and cracked, dotted with wind-carved ridges and broken rock. His eyes scanned the landscape out of habit, looking for the worst place to land, because those were the places no one watched. That’s when he saw the wreckage—scarred metal, shredded hull plating half-sunk in the sand. Someone else had come down hard. Not recent. Still smoking.

He circled once, low and slow. No movement. No distress beacon. Just the smell of cooked steel and ash. But it wasn’t the crash that caught his attention. It was the horizon—those towers.

They rose like monuments. Black glass and silver alloy, stretching up into the sky in tall, sharp columns. Solar towers. Jungkook had seen pictures. Trade sheets. Surveillance logs. But up close, they looked like something ancient—alive. They fed on sunlight, reflected it, bent it into energy. The whole planet revolved around them.

And past them, nestled into the desert like a mirage, was New Mecca. Gleaming walls, polished to a mirror shine, sunlit domes and razor-straight towers. It looked holy from a distance. It wasn’t. He could see the fortifications tucked beneath the shine—missile ports, shield arrays, sniper slits behind faux-gothic archways. No one built a city like that unless they expected trouble.

He didn’t care.

The ship bucked slightly in his grip as he brought it down. The sand kicked up beneath him in great waves, the descent burning through the last of the stabilizers. He adjusted the trim, feathered the rear thrusters, and let the ship slide into the dunes like a stone skipping across water.

WHUMP.

The landing was ugly. Rough. The nose dipped, the tail spun, and for three solid seconds, everything was noise—sand in the engines, the hull screaming, the cabin lights flickering. And then it was done. The ship settled, lopsided and still.

Outside, the wind moved in, slow and steady, brushing over the wreck like fingers pulling it under. The desert would cover it soon. Hide the scar. Erase it.

Jungkook unbuckled his harness, slow and steady, and stood. His boots hit the deck with a quiet thud.

He was here, and that holy man would need to answer a few questions.

Chapter 12: Helion Prime

The Capitol Dome’s ancient doors groaned at last, their vast iron weight parting as if against their own will. The sound rolled outward, a metallic protest that traveled through stone and steel like the overture of collapse. From within, a manufactured gale poured into the corridor, stripping the warmth from the air and dragging breath from every chest it touched. Even here, especially here, the architecture had not been designed for shelter but for subjugation, its very bones meant to remind those inside who was master and who was subject.

Namjoon stepped into that silence. His shoulders squared, his cloak snapping hard in the pressure shift, he moved with the gravity of a man long tempered by fire: weathered, blunted, but not broken. The fractured light caught at the folds of his cloak, scattering spectral sheen across the marble as the Dome’s vents sighed overhead, their old lungs laboring beneath the weight of politics, doctrine, and history they had never been meant to carry.

Behind him, noise swelled.

The rotunda was no longer a chamber of governance but a theater of survival. Voices collided in waves: priests chanting scripture until their throats split raw, generals barking strategy like threats, lawmakers railing against shadows they could not name. Fear was everywhere, draped in robes, wrapped in uniforms, gilded in authority. It filled the Dome so completely the stones themselves seemed to tremble.

An aide stumbled forward, datapad quivering in his grip, uniform soaked through with sweat. He opened his mouth, too slow. Namjoon brushed past him without breaking stride, words sharp as glass, low enough to cut.
“When all is said and done,” he murmured, never looking back, “much will be said. And nothing will be done.”

The chamber opened before him, vast as indulgence itself, a cathedral devoted not to God but to its own grandeur. Gold filigree laced the arches, stained glass caught the dim light and feigned divinity, and statues loomed overhead, monuments so rare they could have bankrupted continents. Yet no display of wealth, no construction of reverence, could disguise the panic that stalked the floor now.

At the central podium, the Defense Minister thundered, his fist cracking against the lectern like a war drum.

“Shut down the beacons! Seal the light! Each one is a map, a target painted on our heart!”

Across the chamber, a young deputy rose. His voice, smooth at first, already frayed with disillusion.

“That’s not defense,” he snapped. “That is entombment dressed as strategy. Extinguish the beacons, and every colony beyond this system dies alone in the dark.”

From the clergy’s benches, a Meccan priest lifted his pendant, a dying sun etched in steel, and let it sway as he spoke. His words fell heavy as stone.

“Is it a rumor that seven colonies are gone? Sanctuaries reduced to rubble? There’s nothing left of them!”

“Twelve!” a voice shrieked from the galleries, ragged with panic. “Twelve now!”

“And not one within our system,” a bureaucrat countered, silk-smooth, his suit worth more than a fleet’s hull. “We have no evidence. Only rumor. Only fear.”

The chamber convulsed: priests in fury, generals pacing like caged predators, lawmakers tossing rhetoric into the fire as if words alone could keep the cold at bay. Near the rear, a Coptic cleric rose. His vestments carried alphabets older than planets, his voice low, deliberate, lethal.

“Seven, twelve, twenty, it is no matter. We are but candles in a wind we cannot feel. And still, we strike the match.”

The Defense Minister’s fist split skin as he roared, “Those beacons will draw them here!” But before the fury could swell further, the deputy’s voice cut through the clamor like a blade.

“If we go dark, others perish. Civilian ships. Outposts with children still learning their letters. We are Helion Prime, the First Light, the Last Voice!”

For a heartbeat, silence gripped the Dome. Reverent. Perilous. Then, as though the invocation itself had dared them, the silence shattered. Voices erupted louder still, every word a scream against inevitability.

From the scaffolds above, Namjoon watched, exhaustion etched into his face, the look of a man who had seen inevitability circle too many times. An aide leaned close, voice tight.

“Yala’s inbound. South field. No escort.”

Namjoon only nodded. Yala never needed escort. She walked as though she already knew where the fire would break.

Below, the chamber fractured further: priests against priests, generals snarling at generals, politicians drowning in the gravity of their own truths. The stars had gone silent, and none could agree on what silence meant.

Then the holodisplay bloomed, sterile light washing the Dome pale. The Helion System rotated in cold detail: five planets, one sun, beacons pulsing—except where they didn’t.

Aquila Major. Cassinia Majora. Altair. Gone. Holes punched into the map, absences colder than death.

Before the uproar could crest, a new voice broke across the floor, rough as stone. A miner from Helion Five.

“Taurus I made contact. After Aquila fell, they cleared the whole cluster. Quick. Clean. Then Altair went dark. Nothing since. System’s holding, for now. But no one knows why. Only that it stopped.”

Silence followed. Not agreement, only the silence of words too heavy to contest.

From the rear benches, another voice rose, calm, deliberate, final.

“The insignia recovered at every site is identical to the Necromonger seal. I cannot explain why certain systems are spared. But let there be no doubt, they are not conquerors, not liberators. They are erasers. They leave nothing in their wake.”

The Dome erupted again, denials, accusations, warnings hurled like weapons, each word honed by desperation. Ceremony fell away, leaving only raw panic clothed in the trappings of order.

Senator Kim Namjoon rose from his bench. His voice carried even before the acoustics caught it, commanding the air.

“I believe Senator Soo has made the matter plain.” He advanced toward the center, tone measured, unyielding. “This is not about fear. This is not about panic. Monsters need no reason to burn a world. They require only that we remain still. And still we have stood. Systems vanish, cities fall silent, and we wait, as if permission will be granted to act. But the door is already open.”

From the clerical benches, a cardinal in scarlet surged to his feet, robes snapping like banners in a storm.

“And what would you propose, Senator Kim? Evacuation of the core? Armament of every city?”

Namjoon’s gaze did not falter.

“No. I propose we stop deceiving ourselves. Taurus fled, and they lived. They adapted. That is not weakness, it is survival.”

A diplomat’s voice bled into the chamber, low as confession.

“Aguerra. The Coalsack. The Lupus moons. Reports the same. Dark zones. Collapsed signals.”

And from the galleries, bitter as ash, came the retort: “So the Necromonger theory is now fact?”

Namjoon lifted his eyes to the fractured glass vault above, light cutting the chamber into hard angles. His voice dropped near whisper, yet carried with the weight of iron.

“If memory serves, it was Senator Yeon who first spoke their name.”

The chamber recoiled as one.

“Conrad Yeon was a traitor,” a voice spat. “He rots in Crematoria.”

Namjoon’s reply was calm. Unflinching.

“He was not easily frightened. And when men like Yeon begin to pray, it is wise to listen.”

Murmurs rippled across the chamber, low and restless, like waves colliding against stone. Then they stilled as the northern doors shuddered, hinges grinding, and at last groaned open.

Yala Badawi entered. Rain still clung to her coat, damp specks glistening under fractured light. Her hijab was bound in practical folds. She carried herself with the poise of one who had not only endured crises beyond imagination but learned to walk through their aftermath without flinching. Crossing the wide expanse of the floor, she advanced to the chamber’s crest, knelt with deliberate grace, and pressed her palm to the sun-etched sigil at its heart. Only then did silence fall absolute, heavy and expectant.

Her voice followed, steady and precise.

“Relays Seventeen through Twenty-Five have entered partial shutdown. Precautionary. Necessary. Three more systems are gone.”

Not a voice interrupted.

“We will not extinguish the grid without consensus,” she continued, her words even, her cadence unhurried. “But neither will we keep pouring light into a darkness we no longer understand.”

A general rose, contempt carved sharp into his features. “And you presume your post entitles you to such a decree?”

Yala’s gaze did not falter.

“I am Executive Director of Helion Energy,” she said. “If the grid collapses, you lose heat, light, air, water, life itself. Every soldier you command breathes because of what I maintain. If that does not warrant your attention, then we are already finished.”

No challenge came. Heads lowered. Voices dimmed.

At length, a governor stood, hesitant and uncertain.

“If we extinguish the beacons, we invite chaos. Panic. This smacks of surrender, not strategy.”

Yala answered without pause.

“It’s not surrender. It is adaptation. Every signal we send is a flare, guiding destruction to our door. If this is the Necromongers, then we must stop drawing their map.”

The shouting dulled. Fear remained, but it bent under her weight, corralled into silence for the first time in hours.

From the benches of the ice worlds, a cleric rose. His skin was pale, thinned from a life beneath synthetic suns. His voice cracked like frozen stone.

“Protocols must be enacted across all Helion colonies. If Prime falls, the cold will not wait for prayers.”

Even the cynics nodded.

Last to rise was the Coptic elder. His frame bent with age, his eyes dim but unyielding. His words entered the air with the slow inevitability of a blade through cloth.

“Reach outward. Tanar IV. The Janari Belt. They, too, have felt the dark. We must unify our light. If we fail, we burn alone.”

Namjoon did not speak again. His spark had been struck and left to catch or die. Quietly, he withdrew into shadow. The stars, indifferent as ever, would not remember. They never did.

Yala found him at the far wall, where the chamber’s roar dimmed to a grinding undertone.

“Good morning, Senator,” she said softly. “How is your daughter?”

Namjoon turned. For the briefest moment, the fatigue cracked, and a small, tired smile surfaced.

“She’s well. Keeps asking for Maryam. Says it’s been too long.”

Yala’s expression eased, steel softening. “She’d love that. Though time is something we no longer have much of.”

“My wife would be glad to arrange it,” Namjoon said, each word measured before leaving his mouth, weighted more than their surface implied.

Yala gave a dry, fond laugh.

“Then I’ll speak to my husband. Mari can bring her, and my sister will come too so she doesn’t feel uneasy. She’s sharper than I am, stricter, but she adores the girls. Once they’re together, nothing else matters.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “Dae’s the same. Fierce. Particular. Reminds me of you.”

“She gets it from her father,” Yala said, her voice gentling. For the first time in days, her eyes warmed. “I’m glad you’re back. These walls were colder without you.”

Namjoon’s reply hovered on the edge of confession, caught between breath and whisper.

“That means more than I can say. Mari’s illness was worse than we feared. We’re grateful it passed.”

“I almost quit,” Yala admitted, her voice low. “This chamber, without sanity, it felt like torture.”

They stood together in silence, shoulder to shoulder, the varnish-and-ozone stench of the Dome pressing into their lungs. Behind them, the chamber slipped back into its storm of noise, ego gnawing at itself, fear draped in the costume of certainty. Neither turned to look. Neither needed to. Their work lay elsewhere, beyond the theater of the rotunda. A glance between them was enough. Then they parted, without ceremony, without farewell.

The Speaker’s gavel cracked against the dais, its echo swallowed by the Dome’s cavernous ribs.

“The chamber will come to order,” he intoned, voice raw with futility.

Order did not come.

Generals rose in succession, uniforms catching the fractured light, voices iron-clad with command.

“Mr. Speaker,” one declared, “in light of these losses, I move for immediate martial safeguards. Civil authority is collapsing. The people demand protection. We must authorize the armed forces to seize control of planetary grids and transit corridors.”

A tide of murmurs swept the chamber. Ministers huddled into knots, priests lifted pendants and invoked scripture, governors barked at aides for figures and forecasts.

Namjoon rose. The noise bent, not silent, but subdued enough for his words to cut through.

“Mr. Speaker, I rise in opposition.” His tone carried the edge of tempered steel. “What is proposed isn’t protection. It’s panic at best. Martial law does not shield the people, it shackles them. It tells every citizen that this chamber has already failed.”

A general slammed his fist against the bench.

“With respect, Senator Kim, rhetoric does not shield colonies. The time for speeches ended when the third system fell. Order must be imposed before chaos consumes all.”

Namjoon did not yield.

“And yet, General, it’s precisely order you threaten to extinguish. Civil authority is not an inconvenience to be discarded in trial. It is the very principle that separates us from those we call enemies. To destroy it now is to concede the argument for which we claim to stand.”

The floor erupted.

A governor from the rim colonies brandished a tablet thick with reports.

“Entire sectors beg for guidance. Food convoys stranded. Beacon corridors collapsing. My citizens demand guarantees. If the military can provide them, why should we deny it?”

From the clerical benches, a priest thundered, pendant swinging violently.

“You would hand the sword to men who know only how to strike? When the people cry out for light?”

The Speaker’s gavel hammered. “The chamber will hear the motion!” 

But procedure drowned in fury.

A bureaucrat in silk sneered, his lips curling into something colder than contempt. His voice rang sharp as fractured glass, cutting through the air.

“Martial law is not security. It will only confuse people even more. It would cause chaos, and civilians would be at gunpoint.”

A general shot back instantly, his tone thunderous, his words heavy with steel.

“Better the barrel of our guns than the silence of our graves.”

Namjoon rose into that tension, his voice carrying like stone dropped into a cavern.

“We debate as if the people belong to us. They do not. They are the reason we endure. If we surrender this chamber to soldiers, we admit democracy was always a luxury, an ornament we wore until crisis stripped it away.”

Silence followed. Not the silence of consensus, but of recognition, truth acknowledged even by those who despised its shape.

Into that pause, Yala Badawi’s voice entered, cool, deliberate, unhurried. She did not rise, yet the chamber leaned toward her as though compelled.

“Mr. Speaker, I move for a joint commission of energy and defense, bound by the oversight of this chamber. The grid cannot be left to soldiers alone, nor to priests, nor to politicians. It sustains us all. Let it be governed by all.”

For a rare moment, the Dome hushed, as though even its stone ribs held breath. The Speaker leaned forward, eyes narrowing, sharp with thought.

“The motion is duly noted. Debate resumes tomorrow.”

But every face in that hall knew: tomorrow was a promise the stars might not keep.

The chamber fractured again, splintering into chaos. Generals roared, priests railed scripture, ministers shouted over one another. Fear had become their common tongue, the only language still fluent here, and it spoke louder than law.

The Speaker’s voice broke through the noise, strained but commanding.

“The chamber recognizes the outer worlds.”

Helion Three’s delegate rose first. She was wrapped in furs of synthetic hide, a remnant of the world she represented. Her words carried frost.

“Where I come from, we do not argue abstractions. We live where the cold can kill a child before dawn. Without the grid, we freeze. Debate martial law if you wish, but hesitation is death. If soldiers guarantee heat, then we welcome their boots.”

Her words split the chamber, pulling nods from some, outrage from others.

Next came Helion Five’s delegate, dust from the mines still clinging to his uniform. His voice was gravel, carved from tunnels and stone.

“We have no shrines. No stained glass. Only rock and labor. We’ve lived without your priests and governors, and we’ll outlast your soldiers too. My people ask for light, not law. Impose martial rule, and Helion Five will answer with silence. I will see to it personally that not one more mineral leaves our world for Prime.”

The chamber roared at that, generals bristling, priests scoffing, ministers squirming uneasily in their seats.

Then Helion Two’s agrarian delegate rose. His hands were calloused, even here in ceremony, his voice plain as the soil he spoke for.

“Crops do not wait on votes. Children do not eat speeches. If martial order secures the grid, I will not oppose it. A soldier at the gate is preferable to famine in the fields.”

A priest leapt up, pendant swinging, eyes burning.

“You would sacrifice liberty for bread? Place scripture beneath the sword?”

The farmer’s answer was iron.

“I would see my people alive to pray tomorrow.”

Gasps rippled, half fury, half grim assent.

From Helion Four, the industrial world, the delegate stood with clipped, pragmatic certainty.

“My people keep the ships aloft, the conduits alive, the weapons forged. Industry thrives on stability. Martial law breeds suspicion, fear, paralysis. Place soldiers in command, and every dock will choke, every forge stall. You will cripple the hands that arm you.”

And then, inevitably, the chamber turned to Namjoon.

He rose without flourish, without thunder, his voice calm as the center of a storm.

“Colleagues. We have heard the voices of stone, of ice, of soil, of steel. Each speaks truth. Each fears the dark. But martial law is not an answer, it is abdication.” His gaze swept the chamber, steady, unyielding. “We do not defeat erasure by erasing ourselves. We do not guard freedom by discarding it. Adaptation, yes, but within law, not above it. If the Necromongers strike, let them strike a people still whole, not one already broken by its own hand.”

From across the floor, a general barked, eyes blazing.

“So you would have us do nothing, Senator Kim? Systems fall, and you speak of principles while the dark closes in!”

Namjoon’s reply came sharp, final.

“I would have us act, General. But act as Helion, not as tyrants. Commission oversight. Joint civilian and military authority. Nothing less.”

Yala rose then, and the chamber bent toward her as though gravity itself shifted.

“He’s right,” she said simply. “Without the grid, you have no soldiers. Without the grid, you have no faith. Without the grid, you have no world. I will not let it burn for the sake of uniforms and titles. The energy will be governed by all, or it will fail for all.”

The chamber erupted again, priests shouting down generals, governors demanding order, bureaucrats muttering of procedure. The Speaker’s gavel thundered until the sound itself became a weapon. Still, no resolution came.

At last, the gavel fell three times, its echo cracking like thunder beneath the Dome’s cavernous ribs.

“This chamber is in recess until tomorrow’s session,” the Speaker declared, voice hoarse but unyielding. “The motion on martial authority will resume then. Until that time, order is suspended.”

The uproar did not die so much as scatter. Delegates filed out in clusters, arguments still burning in hushed tones. Aides trailed like shadows, carrying data-slates and whispered orders. Priests clutched pendants, murmuring prayers. Generals muttered stiffly among themselves, steps clipped and martial. Governors shuffled pale-faced or defiant, all of them exhausted.

The Dome emptied, but not completely. A handful remained: the Speaker, robes drawn close against his thin frame; the Defense Minister, nursing his split knuckles; a cleric from the ice worlds, silent and pale as frost; and Yala Badawi, rooted before the holodisplay still tracing the Helion System in sterile blue. The planets turned slowly, their beacons pulsing like fragile heartbeats, faint and uncertain against the dark.

Namjoon lingered at the threshold, his cloak heavy with damp, his eyes fixed on the holodisplay still turning in the chamber’s center. Planets revolved in sterile blue, their beacons pulsing like fragile heartbeats. To him, it was no map. It was survival rendered into light. He stood a long moment, watching those pulses, until the faint sound of footsteps drew him from his reverie.

Yala Badawi approached, her rain-speckled coat clinging to her shoulders, the chill of the city following her inside. The weight of the chamber, its roar and fury, seemed to fall away when she stopped before him. For once, her voice carried no edge, no precision sharpened for debate. It was stripped bare, softened.

“You should go,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow will be worse. You’ll need your strength.”

Namjoon exhaled, a breath that nearly became a laugh.

“Strength is scarce these days.”

Her gaze locked onto his, unwavering, almost fierce in its steadiness.

“Get your family ready, Namjoon. Whatever comes won’t be delayed much longer. Not after this.”

The tension in his jaw eased for a moment, and something older, gentler flickered across his face. He gave a single nod, firm and unyielding.

“I already have.”

No further words passed between them. Yala turned back toward the holodisplay, her eyes drawn again to the blank spaces where light had vanished into silence. Namjoon pulled his cloak tighter around him and stepped into the corridor, his stride echoing like breath through the Dome’s weary lungs. Behind him, the map kept turning, blue pulses marking a galaxy vanishing one world at a time.

Outside, the city lay muted under mist. Lights bled faintly through the haze, more ghostly than real, as Namjoon walked the streets toward home. The Dome’s echoes clung to him still: the roar of priests, the bark of generals, the inevitable promise of tomorrow. Yet his steps remained measured, his bearing unbroken. A holy man could not afford to walk in fragments.

When the door slid open, the first thing that met him was the scent of simmering broth. Warmth wrapped itself around him, steady and insistent, pushing back the chill he carried from the Dome.

In the kitchen, Samara stood over the stove, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair slipping loose from its pins. She hummed softly, not a hymn, not even a melody, just sound to keep silence from growing too heavy. At the table, their daughter Dae crouched over a sheet of paper, crayons scattered like petals across the wood.

“Appa!” Dae looked up, eyes alight, a grin wide as sunrise. She thrust her drawing toward him, a crooked sun, its uneven rays spilling outward in bold, imperfect color.

Namjoon bent to kiss the crown of her head, then set the paper carefully back on the table, reverent as though it were scripture. His lips curved into a small, weary smile.

“The light shines, even in small hands,” he murmured.

Samara glanced over her shoulder, catching the words. “Dinner soon. Sit. You look like you’ve carried the Dome home on your back again.”

He lowered himself into a chair, the sigh that escaped too soft to be complaint.

“They spoke of order, of strength, of salvation. But in the end, they only spoke. Not one voice rose for unity, only for fear. The Dome has titles enough, but no answers.”

His bitterness was quiet, cool, the kind that smolders without flame. His face remained calm, polished smooth by years of storms.

Samara stirred the pot once, slowly, before turning to him. Her eyes were sharp, though her tone stayed measured.

“And what of the call?”

Namjoon blinked. “What call?”

“Earlier,” she said carefully, her gaze flicking toward Dae, who had returned to her crayons. “A woman rang. She said her name was Kani. Asked to speak with you.”

For the first time that evening, Namjoon’s composure shifted. Not shattered, never shattered, but the ripple across stone was unmistakable. He leaned back slightly, folding his hands together.

“A friend,” he said at last, tone even and measured. “Politics. Nothing more.”

Samara studied him for a long moment. She was no senator, no priest, but she knew the cadences of his voice as surely as her own breath. When he withheld, he did it with serenity. And now, she heard it. Yet she only nodded, her eyes dropping once more to their daughter.

“Of course,” she said. “Politics.”

The word lingered heavy in the room. Broth simmered on. Crayons scratched faintly across paper. Namjoon sat in silence, letting the weight of the Dome press on his shoulders while the warmth of home held it faintly at bay. Not enough to lift it, but enough to steady it.

The evening settled soft. The Dome’s roar receded, muffled by walls and the clatter of dishes. Samara moved with practiced grace, setting bowls on the table, murmuring a prayer in the old Christlam cadence. Every gesture was devotion: sleeves drawn modestly, head wrapped in careful folds, her voice low as blessings mingled with the steam of the food.

Dae clapped as the bowls touched the table, impatient with the simple hunger of a child. Namjoon chuckled and bowed his head, folding his hands beside Samara’s. Their voices blended, his low and steady, hers clear and reverent, the words of the prayer as familiar as breath itself.

When it ended, and Dae reached eagerly for bread, Namjoon spoke.

“I saw Yala today.”

Samara’s eyes lifted, sharp for an instant before softening. “At the chamber?”

“Yes. She held the floor.” His tone carried quiet respect. “Afterward, she spoke with me. She invited Dae to play with Maryam tomorrow.”

At once, Dae’s face lit like dawn. “Maryam? Really? Can I, Mama?”

Samara hesitated, smoothing her sleeve with careful fingers. “I don’t like being alone there, Joon. A woman shouldn’t sit unguarded with men not her kin. You know this.”

Namjoon inclined his head, patient, respectful. He never mocked tradition; he met it with care.

“You won’t be alone. Habiba will be there. She keeps the house when Yala is at the Dome.”

At that, Samara’s shoulders eased. Habiba she trusted: pious, steady, known for her faith. Slowly, she nodded.

“Then… yes. If Habiba is there. Dae may go.”

“Tomorrow?” Dae pressed, wriggling in her seat, unable to contain her excitement.

“Tomorrow,” Namjoon confirmed, brushing his hand over her hair. “Maryam will be glad to see you.”

Samara served him his portion, every movement careful, deliberate, inherited from her mother and grandmother. She set the bowl before him, but her gaze lingered. She did not ask again about Kani, though the question burned behind her silence.

“May God guide you, Joon.”

“And keep us all,” he answered. His voice was steady, as enduring as the Dome itself. But beneath that calm, the bitterness of the day still smoldered, hidden, alive, waiting.

Later that night, the house had grown utterly still. The only sound was the faint hum of the grid through the walls, a low thrum so constant it had become indistinguishable from breath itself. Outside, the city’s mist muted even the distant noise of transit. Within, the world had contracted to the quiet of a single home.

Dae had long since been tucked beneath her blankets. The crayons had been cleared from the table, the remnants of bread and broth packed away. In her room, she lay curled in sleep, her small chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of dreams. Namjoon lingered at her door, leaning against the frame as though to drink in the stillness. The dim light caught the outline of her face, softened in rest, and he saw the faint crease of paper against her arm. She clutched the crooked sun she had drawn earlier, folded now, bent at the edges, but held fast like a treasure she would not let go.

Namjoon lowered his head and whispered a blessing over her, words so quiet they merged with the silence. Then he closed the door gently, creating the kind of hush only a holy man knew by heart.

The kitchen light still burned, muted and warm. Samara waited there, her hijab loosened, her posture weary yet composed. The dishes were already stacked with neat precision, her hands folded before her as though the act itself anchored her. She did not look at him when she spoke.

“This Kani,” she said, her voice calm, almost casual. “You did not tell me more.”

Namjoon exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate, weighing his words.

“I heard of her through a colleague. A mutual friend in parliament. She asked after an old companion of mine. I agreed to help. A favor.”

Samara’s eyes flicked toward him, narrowed slightly, though her tone did not sharpen.

“And this favor requires calls in the middle of the day? To our home?”

He stepped closer, his voice lowered, steady, carrying the gravity he used both for scripture and for the chamber. He was speaking to her, but also into the silence that had settled between them.

“Mari, it is business. Nothing more. She knows much of the Necromongers. More than many in the Dome care to admit. To listen to her is to be prepared for what is coming. That is all.”

Samara studied him carefully, her gaze probing for cracks. None appeared. His composure was the same as always, the same calm he wore in the Dome, in prayer, in every arena of his life. But she had known him long enough to feel what words refused to reveal. Beneath the surface, weight pressed down. He would not name it. She would not force it.

At last, she nodded once. “Then I won’t press it further.”

Namjoon inclined his head, the gesture small but heavy with gratitude, not just for her restraint but for the faith she placed in him, in God, in the fragile cord that bound them as family.

“Thank you.”

The night unfolded in ritual after that, as it always did. Lamps dimmed one by one. Doors were checked and secured. The final prayers were spoken, side by side, their voices weaving through the quiet. Samara’s tone was reverent, each syllable measured. Namjoon’s was steady, deep, a cadence that had carried him through storms both public and private.

When at last they lay beneath the covers, the house breathing its soft, domestic silence, Samara turned toward him. Her hand brushed against his beneath the blankets, the touch light but deliberate.

“Tomorrow will bring more shouting,” she whispered. “More fear.”

Namjoon closed his eyes. His reply was quiet, but firm, like stone beneath water.

“Yes. But tonight, there’s peace.”

Her breath trembled faintly, but her words did not. “I love you, Joon.”

His answer came with the weight of oath. “I love you, too.”

And in that stillness, with the Dome’s roar locked outside their walls, they surrendered at last to sleep, carrying both faith and doubt with them into the dark.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Namjoon walked alone through Sector Five. The corridors thrummed with low power, the artificial sun sagging behind clouds bruised purple and gray. The city wasn’t asleep, but it wasn’t alive either.

It was early morning and he was on his walk to the Dome.

At a maintenance junction, he caught it: voices. Hushed. Sharp. Not guards. Not workers. Something else.

He turned down an alley half-lit by lamps flickering on the edge of failure.

A cluster waited there, displaced workers, scavengers, faces worn hollow by exhaustion and hunger. At their center stood a man slick as oil, his grin stretched wide, teeth flashing gold. A profiteer. The kind who bloomed like mold wherever fear outpaced reason.

“When the crusade comes,” the man said, his tone heavy with promise, “you’ll have thirty minutes to board the evac. Miss it, and you’re in a pine box or a crater.”

Namjoon stepped closer, his voice cutting through the murmur like a blade.
“Crusade? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

The man turned toward him, grin widening as though he’d just been dealt a winning hand. “Crusade, blackout, Divine Sweep—it doesn’t matter what you call it.”

Without pausing, he slipped a silver token into a buyer’s palm, then pressed two more into Namjoon’s hand. They were warm, humming faintly, the evac crest glowing like a wound refusing to close.

“They’re not for me,” Namjoon said flatly.

The man’s grin didn’t falter. “They are now.”

Namjoon stared at the tokens, then pocketed them anyway. The weight slid cold against his ribs, heavier than metal, heavier than coin. Not for him, he told himself. Not for him. But the lie clung like smoke.

Then the alley erupted.

Helion security stormed in from the blind side, visors sealed, rifles high, boots hammering the concrete like gunfire. Crates overturned. Orders barked. A scream tore through the chaos, raw, human, terrified.

Namjoon turned just in time to see soldiers drag a man from the shadows, his face streaked with blood, limbs thrashing, voice breaking between sobs and curses. For a split second, Namjoon’s breath caught. The posture, the fire in the eyes, the refusal to yield—it was Jungkook. It had to be.

But it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

His body still moved before his mind caught up. He slipped back into the corridor, noise fading into the hiss of concrete and steel. The tokens pulsed against his side. Not heat. Weight. Not for him, he repeated, but the thought rang hollow.

He slowed only when he circled back toward the mouth of the alley, breath ragged, pulse hammering like a warning drum. Security still held the ground: six soldiers in matte black traced with gold sector lines. Their formation was too tight, their stances too sharp. Not routine. Not patrol. This was fear dressed in armor.

Namjoon stepped into the open, hands low but steady. He didn’t raise them. He didn’t need to.

The nearest soldier froze mid-motion. Her voice caught in the modulator when she spoke.

“Senator Kim.” A pause, then her visor hissed open, revealing a young face already carved hard by fear. “Sir. You shouldn’t be here.”

Namjoon closed the distance, reading their eyes, their breath. “Tell me what’s happening.”

The rest turned at his voice. Rifles dipped instantly. To them, he wasn’t just a senator. He was the story their parents told: M6-117, the man who had survived the unsurvivable and carried a small girl out of the fire. He was something steadier than law.

The officer in charge stepped forward, stripes clear on her arm, voice clipped but strained.
“Martial law enacted fifteen minutes ago. Central Command ordered full detainment. Citywide.”

Namjoon’s jaw tightened. “On whose authority?”

“Joint session,” she said. “Emergency quorum after satellite tracking flagged an object. Unknown vessel. High mass. No beacon. No registry. Coming in from the system’s edge. Too fast for supply, too slow for meteor.”

Namjoon’s stomach dropped, the weight of it dragging through him like lead. “How long?”

“Six hours at current velocity,” the officer replied. “Less if it accelerates. Command wants no one unaccounted for. Everyone goes inside.”

Silence stretched out, colder than the steel around them. Against the wall, detainees hunched in a line: traders, tinkers, street kids with eyes too old for their faces. Some stared at Namjoon like he might be the answer. Others refused to look at all. Easier not to hope.

“They’re not insurgents,” Namjoon said, voice even but hard enough to cut. “They’re civilians.”

The officer straightened instinctively, words tumbling out too quick. “We’re not treating them as combatants, sir. But protocol is protocol. Orders are to move all non-essential personnel into lockdown. Trucks are coming. We just hold the perimeter until they arrive.”

Namjoon’s eyes slid down to the man crumpled on the concrete. His face was smeared with blood, one arm twisted beneath him at an angle that promised weeks of pain. Namjoon’s voice didn’t rise, but the edge in it sharpened.

“Then why does it look like you’re dragging them through it?”

The officer’s jaw worked, but no answer came. He swallowed it back.

A younger soldier shifted beside him, voice breaking the silence. “Sir, the alley was crowded. When we moved in, someone bolted. We thought it was a runner. Things got… messy.”

Namjoon let out a breath that carried more than air. He crouched beside the man on the ground, lowering his voice.

“What’s your name?”

The man flinched, eyelids fluttering open. Red-rimmed eyes burned through the haze of pain.

“Joaquin,” he rasped. “Just… buying rations. Didn’t know what was happening.”

Namjoon gave a single nod, an acknowledgment, not pity, then rose, turning back to the officer.

“You’ll get your perimeter,” he said evenly. “But no more bruises. And no more broken people.”

The officer’s reply came quieter now. “Yes, Senator.”

Namjoon let his gaze sweep the street. Splintered crates lay scattered across the pavement, rice spilling in pale rivulets that looked like ash against the stone. People froze mid-motion, caught in the aftermath. Some still held their hands in the air. Others clutched their bags tight against their chests, uncertain whether to flee or apologize for existing. Fear hung over them thick and gray. Not fear of rifles. Fear of what the rifles meant. Fear of the shift already underway, something heavier than curfew, something that would not pass when morning came.

He faced the officer again, his voice low, measured.

“I’m on my way home. I need to collect my family. As a Senator, I have clearance for an escape pod. We’re authorized.”

The officer, young, armored, shoulders stiff with nerves, nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. That’s correct. Do you want an escort?”

Namjoon shook his head. “No. I’ll manage.”

He didn’t wait for the words to settle. He was already moving, stride cutting him free of the alley, into the labyrinth of Sector Five. The undercity folded tight around him like a throat. His footsteps echoed against walls too narrow, too still, as if the city itself leaned in to listen.

The tokens in his coat pulsed faintly against his thigh. Not heavy, not really, but dragging, pulling breath from his lungs. Not for me, he told himself again. Each time, the words rang thinner, more fragile.

His apartment loomed at the end of the hall, a tower of steel and fingerprint glass, quiet as always. He hit the entry panel harder than necessary. The door slid open with a crack that echoed down the corridor like a gunshot.

Inside, the calm felt wrong. The air was cool, the vents humming, lights pulsing soft from recessed panels. But it was all surface, an illusion painted over stone already crumbling beneath.

Namjoon took the stairs two at a time, lungs tight, legs burning but unwilling to stop. His hand brushed the railing, polished metal catching the glow as if the house still belonged to another life. It should have felt familiar. It didn’t. Everything felt staged, like a set built for a life that had paused too long.

Halfway up, he froze.

A sound.

Scrape. Slow. Metallic.

Not loud. But deep enough to settle into his bones. Steel dragged on stone, or steel on steel. Deliberate. Ritual. A sound made by someone in no hurry at all.

The silence after was worse. The air seemed to hold its breath.

Then a voice. Dry. Hollow. Like it had come through dust or glass.

“Worst place I could find. Quiet. Far from all of you. That’s what I wanted. Just a little peace. I had it. And then someone decided they couldn’t leave me alone.”

Namjoon turned slowly. He already knew.

Jungkook stood framed in the washroom doorway, hunched over the sink, shoulders squared. His movements were careful, measured. A blade arced smoothly across his scalp, shaving it clean. Each pass left gleaming skin in its wake. Ritual turned into armor. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t nervous. He was practiced.

Namjoon didn’t speak. Didn’t dare. Any word might shatter the fragile surface of the moment.

Jungkook straightened. The knife hung loose in his hand, balanced like an extension of himself. His face was leaner now, worn to wire and sinew. Scars traced his skin, but his eyes, those dark, steady eyes, locked onto Namjoon’s as if nothing had ever changed. Steel meeting steel.

“I told one person where I’d go,” Jungkook said, voice raw, scraped thin. “One.”

He stepped forward.

“I trusted one man.”

Another step.

“Did I make a mistake?”

Namjoon opened his mouth, but the answer came too late.

Jungkook moved with brutal, sudden grace. The knife pressed against Namjoon’s throat, the steel cool, intimate, precise. Not a threat. A promise.

“Did I?” Jungkook repeated, softer now, the edge of the blade steady as a surgeon’s hand.

Namjoon’s reply came low, each word chosen as if it might be the last. “Whatever I said, it wasn’t betrayal. You have my word. It was a warning. A way out, for you. For all of us.”

He drew in a careful breath. The edge shifted with it, cool steel brushing skin.

“If this hadn’t happened, if it was still only between us, I would have taken your secret to my grave.”

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

And then, footsteps. Light. Quick. Upstairs.

The spell shattered. Both men turned at once.

She stood in the hallway, a little girl, no older than six. Draped in soft red and white, her long black hair fell straight past her shoulders, neat and gleaming against the muted light. She looked like she had stepped out of a storybook, something fragile and out of place in a house filled with shadows. But her gaze wasn’t fragile. It was steady. Direct. Fixed on Jungkook.

“Jungkook?” she asked. Just his name. Small. Simple. But it landed like a stone thrown into still water.

Behind her came more sound: hurried steps, fabric rustling, the slap of something dropped. A towel hit the floor. Then appeared a woman, breathless, black coarse hair damp against her shoulders. She froze mid-step at the sight before her, eyes catching on knife, man, husband, all the pieces colliding in one moment. Her face locked, unreadable.

She turned sharply, disappeared back into the bedroom. Drawers slid open. Cloth shifted. Seconds later she returned fully dressed, head covered, posture straight and regal. Her warm, dark skin was complimented nicely by the pale blue wrapped around her hair. Her eyes were more green than brown now, and Namjoon couldn’t help but think of his own mother. The two bore a striking resemblance. She took her place behind her daughter, both hands steady on the girl’s shoulders, eyes leveled on Jungkook without flinching.

“A wife?” he asked, feeling something close to fondness for the imam.

It made him feel, surprisingly, relieved. He had worried the man would never move on from the planet M6-117. Jungkook knew he hadn’t.

Namjoon’s reply was quiet, even. “Her name is Samara Al-Bishi. She’s a local doctor.”

But Jungkook didn’t look at him. His eyes dissected her instead: her stance, the way she carried herself, the way years of survival had carved her into something firm. She did not look like any doctor Jungkook had ever seen, but then again he’d only known the ones in prisons and military bases. Her skin looked as soft as rose petals, but her eyes told him that she did not trust him.

“Been a long time since ‘beautiful’ meant anything,” he muttered. His voice scraped raw. “How long, Namjoon?”

“Nearly five years. We met very soon after Leo and I returned to New Mecca. I knew from the moment I saw her that I wanted to ask her father’s permission to marry her.”

Samara began guiding her daughter back down the hall, one hand gentle at the girl’s back.

But Jungkook’s voice snapped through the space, taut as wire.
“And her?” His eyes flicked to the child.

Samara stopped. The veil shadowed her face, but her hesitation was clear.
“Delilah,” she finally said. “But you may call her Dae. She’s named after my mother.”

The girl didn’t flinch. She lifted her chin just enough to meet Jungkook’s eyes. They were a mirror image of her father’s. She even shared his dimples. The only things she had inherited from her mother were her curls and dark skin. And unlike Samara she wore no head covering.

“Did you really kill the monsters?” she asked. “The ones that wanted to hurt my appa?”

The words landed softly, but the weight in them was a hammer wrapped in cloth. Jungkook didn’t answer. For an instant, something cracked across his face, small, deep, nearly invisible. He looked at her, then at Namjoon. And for that moment the knife in his hand seemed wrong, like a prop dragged in from the wrong play. For a moment, he wasn’t the danger in the room. He was the man who used to stand between monsters and the people too scared to name them.

“She knows that?” His voice came quieter, almost disbelief.

Namjoon gave a slow nod. “Such are our bedtime stories.”

Jungkook blinked once. Then the knife vanished with a flick, smooth, practiced, silent. Not surrender. Not forgiveness. Just unnecessary now. The air loosened, the walls seemed to exhale, and the silence shifted from deadly to fragile.

Samara didn’t wait. She turned, ushering Dae down the hall. The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.

What followed wasn’t peace. Just silence. Earned. Thin. The kind you hold carefully so it doesn’t break.

Jungkook stood in it, chest rising and falling like he had to remind himself how. He turned back to the basin, braced his hands on the porcelain. His knuckles whitened, not from rage, but from the effort of holding himself together. He stared down into the water. No reflection looked back. Just a dull surface, flat and empty.

“You shouldn’t have told her,” he muttered. The words weren’t bitter. Just tired. Bone-deep tired. “You were the only one I thought would understand.”

Namjoon stayed still, his voice calm, steady as stone. “I do have my reasons.”

Jungkook gave a dry scoff, dragging a scarred hand down his face. “Then explain. You don’t break your word. So why put mercs on my trail?”

Namjoon didn’t dodge. “Because something’s coming. Vast. Unstoppable. It’s burning through systems and leaving only silence where cities used to be. I couldn’t leave you buried, not if you could help stop it.”

That hit. Jungkook’s grip on the basin eased. His stance shifted, not softened, but listening now. He turned, eyes locking on Namjoon’s.

“I trusted you,” he said. “You were the one man I could count on… to let me disappear.”

Namjoon nodded once. “And you were the one man I could count on to come back if the stars started falling. You’re furious. You should be. You’ve earned it. But you’re here. Some part of you already knew. I wouldn’t have called unless I had to.”

Jungkook turned away, running a hand across his freshly shaven scalp. The skin caught the light, his fingers lingering as if relearning the shape of himself.

“I should kill you,” he muttered.

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “You could. Wouldn’t take much.”

The silence stretched, heavy with years unsaid.

Finally Jungkook exhaled—not relief, not surrender. Just release.

“She’s a good kid,” he said at last, nodding toward the closed door. “Looks like you.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No one’s ever said that before.”

“Well, she does.” Jungkook’s gaze flicked sideways, a flicker of warmth buried under ruin. “Still can’t believe you told her about that shithole.”

“I didn’t,” Namjoon said. “Not exactly. Just enough for her to know why I don’t flinch when she asks about monsters.”

Jungkook leaned against the counter, sigh scraping out of him. “So what now?”

Namjoon stepped forward, careful, leaving a measured space between them. “Now I tell you who’s coming to dinner. And you spend the next twenty minutes trying to scare me out of it before they arrive and prove I wasn’t bluffing.”

Jungkook looked at him. The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, not yet. But close.

“You got tea?”

Namjoon let out a breath. “Always.”

He moved toward the galley. The faint scent of lemon peel and cardamom lingered in the air—Samara’s touch, quiet and grounding. His motions were smooth, practiced, the small rituals of someone who knew how much weight they carried after too much chaos.

Behind him, Jungkook followed. Slower, but following all the same.

The silence between them wasn’t empty anymore. It had edges now, weight, shape. Not comfortable. Not safe. But usable. The kind of silence shared by two men who had stopped bleeding just long enough to admit they were still standing.

Jungkook leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes unfocused as if fixed on some point far beyond the room. When he spoke, his voice was softer than it had any right to be—raw, worn down by years but still carrying a quiet edge.

“Does she know our story?”

Namjoon struck the burner. A hiss filled the silence, followed by the sharp whoosh of blue flame. He moved without hurry, reaching for the tin of leaves, each motion precise.

“She knows what she needs to,” he answered, voice even. “That you were brave when you didn’t have to be. That you helped her father when no one else would. That some call you a criminal, and some call you a hero. She’s smart enough to know those words aren’t opposites.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, the line of his face sharp in the fading light. Then it eased again, a breath exhaled between clenched teeth.

“But not the rest.”

Namjoon looked up, eyes steady. “No. But I didn’t lie. Dae doesn’t ask questions she isn’t ready for.”

Jungkook let out a sound—half laugh, half sigh. “Still the philosopher.”

Namjoon slid the tin closed. “I’ve had practice.”

Outside, the light shifted. Amber streaks bled through the windowpanes, syrup-thick on the tiles. Shadows grew long and angled, stretching sharp against the counters. From deeper in the house came the soft murmur of Samara’s steps across the floorboards, steady and deliberate. Then a giggle—Dae’s voice, sudden and unscripted, cutting through the air like a bell. Alive. Untouched by the weight in this room.

Jungkook felt it immediately. This wasn’t his kind of place. Too much stillness. Too much light. Houses like this didn’t shut him out, but they didn’t hold him either. He fit them the way a knife fit a cradle—possible, but wrong.

“She’ll hate me someday,” he said at last, eyes tracking the steam curling from the kettle. “Not now. Later.”

Namjoon poured the water carefully, each motion deliberate. “Unlikely. You’re easier to like than you think.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitched. “You didn’t like me.”

“At first,” Namjoon admitted, setting two mugs on the counter. His tone was calm, but the memory hung heavy. “But I’ve learned to see things differently. We were different. Still are. But I owe you my life. Without you, there’s no Mari. No Dae. I wouldn’t have left that station alive.”

Jungkook pushed off the counter, stepping closer. Not hostile, not threatening—just deliberate. The room shrank with the movement, space bending around the weight of his presence. His voice dropped, low and intimate.

“Who do I need to kill to stop this?”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “You wouldn’t find them. Not if you tried.”

Jungkook’s face stayed flat, unreadable. But his tone curled sharp, a whisper meant for steel, not air. “Then stop wasting time. Bring them to me.”

Namjoon met his gaze, steady, tired but unbroken. “If I do that, you’ll burn the house down to reach them.”

Neither man moved. The silence between them was taut, wire-drawn.

Then Namjoon turned toward the window. The light outside had changed again, shifting thin and metallic. Across the bruised sky, a comet cut its path, leaving behind a pale silver scar. The streak threw bone-colored shadows across the room, a false daylight that felt older than the stars themselves.

“Nero died. Rome tore itself apart. All of it,” Namjoon said softly, “under a comet.”

Jungkook slid into a chair at the table, pulling a blade from his belt with the ease of second nature. He spun it between his fingers, clean, rhythmic, almost careless. A candlestick split down its center, then another. The pieces toppled silently to the wood. He didn’t look at them. His eyes were far away, fixed on something nameless.

“Another omen,” Namjoon murmured.

“Everything’s circlin’ the drain,” Jungkook said flatly.

Namjoon nodded once. “It is.”

The blade spun faster now, flashing in the dim light, an orbit of steel around his hand. Jungkook’s voice came without lifting his eyes. “Always had to end. One way or another.”

Then the doorbell rang.

The blade froze mid-spin, caught in Jungkook’s palm like it had been waiting.

Namjoon didn’t move at first. His hand slid beneath the counter, fingers tapping twice against a recessed switch. No sound. Just signal.

“Guests?” Jungkook asked, voice quiet.

Namjoon nodded once. “The kind that don’t wait.”

Jungkook rose from the chair, eyes narrowing toward the hallway shadows. “You said tonight.”

“This is early.”

“And that’s not a problem?”

Namjoon lifted his mug, took a slow sip. “It’s a very big problem.”

Three knocks followed. Sharp. Precise. Deliberate.

Samara appeared at the hall’s edge, already veiled, her spine straight as a blade. Her hands rested lightly on Dae’s shoulders, steadying her in place. The girl peeked around her mother’s leg, wide eyes darting between Jungkook and the door.

“They’re not here for her,” Namjoon said softly.

Samara didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice carried steady. “They’ll still look.”

Jungkook’s hand dropped to his side. Not drawing. Just ready.

“Let them,” he said. “If trouble’s here, it’ll find me first.”

Namjoon shook his head, voice like stone. “No. It’ll find me.”

The jangle of bells shattered the quiet—thin, metallic, like glass under a blade.

Samara moved to the door, her steps measured, her hands steady on the latch. But her eyes betrayed her—nerves thrumming beneath the calm. She paused for a breath, then eased it open.

Three clerics crossed the threshold without a word. Their black robes drifted inward like fog, carrying with them a pressure that bent the air. Subtle at first, then undeniable. The room seemed to tilt under it, as though something unseen had slipped in alongside them and lodged itself in Samara’s chest. She shut the door hard, bolted it, and lingered against the frame a beat too long. The weight didn’t leave.

The clerics moved with eerie patience, gliding as if gravity were an afterthought. Their robes carried the faint sweetness of incense—pleasant for a moment, then soured into ash. Namjoon waited until they were fully inside before he spoke, voice low, deliberate, unshaken.
“He’s here. The one you wanted.”

Jungkook rose. The man who had slouched against the counter was gone, burned away in an instant. What stood now was sharper, storm-forged, presence honed to an edge. He said nothing. He only moved, blade loose in his hand, boots striking the floor with finality.

He stopped in front of the clerics. Without hesitation, he tore away their coverings.

Plain faces stared back. Ordinary men. No spark of recognition. No anchor for the twist tightening in his gut. Logic didn’t matter. Instinct spoke louder.

He turned slightly toward Namjoon. “Even if I looked—”

One of the clerics flinched. Barely. But enough.

Jungkook crossed the distance in two strides, blade angled low, voice quiet, almost tender. “Something you want to say?”

The air shifted. Pressure thickened, no sound, no warning.

Jungkook spun, blade flashing, just as a figure appeared behind him. Steel snapped up to a pale throat.

The woman didn’t flinch. She stepped forward into the dim light with unhurried grace, her skin shimmering faintly as though light passed through water. Her eyes were clear, calm, unafraid. She carried herself like someone balanced between two worlds—one ancient, one still alive.

“Whose throat is this?” Jungkook asked, voice edged in steel.

Namjoon stepped forward—not crowding, but present. “This is Makani. Envoy of the Elementals.”

Jungkook didn’t lower the knife. “Fuck’s that got to do with me?”

Namjoon’s eyes held his. “She’s not here to harm you.”

“How do you know that?” Jungkook’s tone flattened, knife pressing closer. “Bitch put a bounty on my head. I don’t take that kindly.”

Makani’s voice came soft, but it carried like smoke. “If I die, the offer dies with me. So does the reason you’re here.”

“I’ll lower the blade when the price on my head is gone.”

Her head tilted. A faint smile flickered like a match. Then she vanished. No sound. Just gone. The air folded in where she’d been.

Her voice drifted back, smoke through the rafters.

“There’s a story,” she said. “Of Furyan boys strangled in their cribs with their own cords. Feared the moment they opened their eyes.”

Namjoon’s answer was soft, almost reverent. “I told them about you.”

Jungkook scoffed under his breath. “Don’t talk to me like a prophet, holy man. Talk to me like a man who’s done time.”

Makani reappeared—slow, sure—slipping from shadow as if it were nothing more than a doorway. “The Furyan bloodline may be the only thing that slows the Necromongers.”

“So I’m a weapon.” Jungkook’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Figures. Shouldn’t be surprised.”

Makani’s eyes locked on his. “Don’t you ever wonder where you’re from? What you are?”

“Not particularly.” Jungkook shrugged. The lie sat heavy in his chest.

“Do you remember your world?” Namjoon asked. “Where you’re from?”

“Yeah.” Jungkook’s voice sharpened into sarcasm. “Lupus Five. Orphan.”

Makani cut in quickly, her voice both near and far, unsettling as drifting glass. “Have you ever met another like you?”

Jungkook’s eyes hardened. “Sister, they don’t know what to do with one of me.”

Makani chuckled, dark and quiet. Namjoon stepped in before it stretched too long.

“I think she means ones with your eyes,” he said gently. “You once told me they were done in a prison. But I don’t believe that. Do you, Jungkook?”

Jungkook’s silence said enough. He searched for a memory of telling Namjoon that story but came up blank. Only three people knew it. Leo. Lee. Y/N. Lee never would have spoken. Y/N was dead. That left Leo. Still, the thought twisted something sharp in him. Betrayal by proxy, by a girl who had once been closer than family.

He hated anyone playing his cards without permission.

“Who gives a shit?” he snapped.

“I do,” Makani replied coolly. “There’s a prophecy of a Furyan. A boy who will grow into a man and burn the plague of the Necromongers out for good. It came to me long before this night.”

“And you think I’m it?” His voice rose, tired of the back and forth. “A Furyan?”

“I know you are.”

Before he could answer, pounding shook the door. Fists of iron hammering in bursts that rattled the cabinets, shook the walls, echoed through the floorboards.

Jungkook didn’t move. His eyes were already mapping exits, rooftops, escape lines drawn in his head. Angles. Distances. Calculations. All of it. But he waited.

Samara appeared in the hall, face pale, lips tight. Her gaze cut between Namjoon and Jungkook, fear sharp under her calm. Her voice barely carried.

“It’s Necromongers. They’re going house to house. They’re looking for Makani.”

She hesitated.

“A jasus ,” Namjoon said. Cold. Certain. “Someone’s been followed.”

Samara’s hands curled into her sleeves. She turned to Jungkook. “Did anyone see you come in?”

Before he could answer, the door shrieked. Plasma torches. Steel sizzling, spitting fire from its seams. The stink of vaporized metal filled the house, acrid and choking.

Jungkook’s muscles coiled tight, every fiber strung for violence. His gaze swept the skyline, tracing rooftops, mapping escape lines without thought. His body had already chosen the leap.

And then Namjoon spoke.

“Will you leave us to our fate?” His voice was even, but it carried weight. “Like you left her?”

Jungkook froze.

The torches, the boots pounding outside, the shriek of steel—gone. The trembling house, the fire in its seams—gone. What remained was a single name.

Y/N.

The memory came sharp, merciless, tearing him open in an instant. She never crept into his thoughts—she arrived, uninvited, standing there with arms crossed, chin tilted just so. That look she wore when she was about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear, something he couldn’t ignore.

She hadn’t gone quietly. That wasn’t in her. She had gone headfirst into fire she had no business walking into—for people who would never remember her name. For him, too. That was the part that burned deepest. She had thought he was worth that. He hadn’t proved her right.

She had known him. All of him. The blood. The edge. The ruin stitched into his bones. She had seen it, accepted it, held it up like it was just another piece of the world worth keeping. And that calm steadiness of hers—that had undone him more than any scream could.

And now, with the walls ready to cave and the roof trembling above him, she was back again. Alive behind his eyes. Too close to bear.

Downstairs, the door gave way with a shriek of tearing steel. The frame buckled. Smoke poured in. Voices followed—sharp, commanding, absolute.

Namjoon stood near the archway, jaw set, voice low but steady.

“We still have influence,” he murmured. “Let us try. Please, Jungkook.”

Jungkook closed his eyes. He thought of a child without a father. He thought of what that silence costs.

Namjoon nodded once, then slipped into the hall. The clerics followed, robes brushing the walls like dead leaves caught in a draft. The air shifted after they left—cooler, thinner. As if the house itself had exhaled.

And then Makani appeared.

Not walking. Not stepping. Emerging—folding out of shadow, her form clinging to the dim light like dust caught on glass. Her words were faint, almost not there.

“Consider it another test.”

Then she was gone.

Jungkook’s body stilled, but his mind sharpened—sliding into that cold, merciless place where instinct ruled and hesitation killed.

A creak below. Another. Closer. Boots on the stairs. Measured. Steady. Not rushing. Good, he thought. Better when they believe they’re in control.

He whispered into the dark, voice flat.

“Come on in.”

Ten soldiers swept into the room with machine precision—armor gleaming, rifles raised, lights slashing through shadow. Trained. Alert. But not ready. Not for him.

The first man never saw it. One step too far, one breath too loud—and Jungkook dropped him in silence. Sharp. Clean. Final.

The pause that followed killed the rest.

Gunfire erupted, muzzle flashes strobing white, then red, then black again. They shot at ghosts. They hit walls, furniture, air. Not him. Never him. Jungkook moved through smoke like water through cracks—silent, certain, merciless.

Steel flashed. A rifle clattered. A helmet rolled. A body slammed into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. Another fell in its wake. Screams tore loose, but each ended fast. By the time the fifth soldier hit the ground, the rest were breaking—formation gone, discipline shredded. Just noise, panic, and death closing in.

One bolted. Jungkook caught him mid-stride, slammed him into the floor, and kept moving. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

Outside, even the dogs had gone quiet. Samara and the clerics stood frozen near the veranda, their faces lit in the fading red bursts of gunfire that was already dying.

Then silence. Heavy. Oily. The kind that seeps into the bones and lingers long after the violence is done.

Jungkook stepped out of it.

He didn’t look like a man fresh from battle. He looked like someone who had gone somewhere worse and wasn’t sure if he had dragged that place back with him. His goggles glowed faint red. His blade dripped once, then stilled.

Only one soldier remained.

A boy. Barely more than a recruit. His rifle shook in his hands, eyes wide and wet with terror.

Jungkook walked toward him, slow, deliberate. Calm. He plucked the weapon from the boy’s grip as if it were nothing, tossed it aside. Then he looked at him, steady, unblinking. A flick of his wrist. Go.

The boy ran. Didn’t look back.

When Jungkook turned, Namjoon was in the doorway. Expressionless. Watching.

“You mentioned her,” Jungkook said, voice raw.

“I was speaking of Leo.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. His mouth opened, closed. Not Y/N—she belonged to another lifetime, buried in fire and ash. Leo was the one he had left. The one he thought distance would save. By now she would be nearly twenty. Old enough to have chosen her own path. He wondered where she could be.

“She followed your path too closely,” Namjoon said. His voice was heavy, each word carried like it burned. “People died.”

Jungkook’s jaw twitched, the smallest fracture. “She wanted me to be something I’m not,” he muttered, almost to himself. “That’s always a mistake.”

He turned, started walking.

Namjoon’s voice followed, softer. “She never forgave you for leaving.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, and Jungkook froze mid-step. His spine locked, shoulders squared, every muscle drawn taut. His breath caught in his chest, shallow, unfinished—but he didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Instead, he vaulted the veranda rail in one fluid motion, vanishing into the dark beyond.

Down in the courtyard, the air was dust and silence. Samara and Dae stood there, faintly lit by the failing grid, their shapes caught in the brittle hush of a city holding its breath. The silence stretched, fragile, about to break. Then Dae spoke—her voice soft but steady, steadier than it should have been for someone her age.

“Are you going to stop the new monsters now?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed above the rooftops. A shimmer wavered there—Makani, half-seen, half-not, like heat rippling across stone.

“He doesn’t even know who he is,” her voice thinned into the wind, vanishing as quickly as it had come.

Jungkook slipped across the roofline with the practiced ease of someone who had lived too long in nameless places. His body moved low, fast, silent—instinct honed into motion.

Below, the city unraveled. People flooded the streets, pointing skyward, voices cracking into sharp bursts of panic.

He looked up too.

At first, it seemed like a comet, dragging a long tail of light across the heavens. Beautiful. Almost gentle. But then the shape fractured—not an explosion, not random chaos. A shedding. Smooth, deliberate. The tail peeled away in gleaming shards. Not rock. Not ice.

Metal.

Ships.

The comet’s tail split open like a curtain, and behind it waited the truth. Jungkook’s breath caught.

An armada.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of Necromonger warships, folding out of shadow and into atmosphere as though they had been there all along, hidden behind the veil of the clouds. Their hulls caught the glow of the city and turned it cold. The sky itself dimmed beneath their shadow.

The first strike fell without warning.

An Icon—one of their titans—dropped straight onto a solar beacon at the western edge of the city. The impact was monstrous, louder than the air should have been able to hold. Fire tore through the skyline, swallowing steel and glass. Windows shattered for blocks. The beacon toppled, sparks and stone raining down in a storm of ruin.

The shockwave hit the rooftops like a freight train. Jungkook slammed to the ground, ribs flaring, teeth filled with grit. Dust smothered his lungs. But he rose. Always rose.

New Mecca had become a battlefield in the span of a single breath. Sirens wailed. Fires climbed. The city screamed itself raw. Jungkook walked toward it.

Not running. Not dodging. Just walking—through smoke, through falling ash, past bodies and wreckage of steel and stone. Citizens surged around him in every direction, pulled by instinct and survival, but his eyes stayed locked on the ruin. On the Icon.

It loomed like a shadow statue, taller than the buildings it crushed, plates gleaming in the firelight. Not a machine for building. Not even a machine for conquest. A machine built to end. Its limbs moved with slow precision, venting steam like a furnace drawing in breath.

Fighter jets streaked overhead—bright flashes across the dark, sonic cracks splitting the air—but their missiles fizzled harmlessly, bouncing off armor as if they were pebbles against stone.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t conquest. This wasn’t domination. This was erasure.

And then came silence. Not the absence of noise—something heavier. A hum rolled through the lower districts, pressing behind the eyes, vibrating in bone.

In the plaza, people froze mid-motion. Heads tilted upward, wide-eyed. A sphere hung above them. Perfect. Pale. Motionless. It didn’t need to speak. Its presence alone commanded.

Then came the soldiers. Necromongers. Black-armored, faceless. Dozens at first, then hundreds, pouring into the square like ink spilling across stone. No noise. No chant. Just inevitability.

At their front—Taehyung.

Composed. Still. His eyes burned cold. He didn’t shout. Didn’t gesture. He simply raised his weapon toward the sphere.

Three hundred rifles followed his lead.

The blast came soundless. Force without fire. Reality bent, turned inside out. The orb pulsed once, and everything in its reach ceased to exist.

Not rubble. Not ruin. Erased.

Buildings dissolved in silence. Glass, stone, steel—gone. People vanished mid-scream, bodies stripped into nothing. Light itself seemed swallowed. And the dark that followed didn’t feel temporary. It felt permanent.

From behind a shattered wall, Namjoon watched. Tokens burned in his hand, their glow cruel now. Futile.

Beside him, Jungkook stood still, eyes fixed on the void. His face calm. Not shocked. Not afraid.

Just… awed.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

Namjoon’s throat worked dry. His voice cracked against the weight of what he saw. “I’ll stay to fight. But I need Mari and Dae across the river. If I can just—”

Jungkook cut him off with a laugh—low, weary. Not mocking. Just tired. “God’s got his tricks. But getting out of places like this?” He glanced over, the ghost of a grin curling at his mouth. “That’s one of mine. Get your family.”

Behind them, the Necro army pressed forward, crossing the bridge with inevitability heavier than steel. At their head, Taehyung moved without triumph, without hunger. Just forward momentum, relentless and exact.

Above, more spheres multiplied, drifting through the sky like silent judges. Wherever they passed, whole blocks blinked out of existence under their white fire.

Jungkook led them through New Mecca’s alleys with the precision of someone retracing scars. His steps were measured, his turns exact. He had walked these streets before, bled in them, left pieces of himself in the cracks between stone and shadow. Now the city was something else entirely—less a place than a graveyard still smoldering.

Burned-out vehicles sat abandoned at crooked angles, shells gutted by fire. Power lines sagged across the road, sparking faintly, hissing into puddles that steamed in the heat. Soldiers lay where they had fallen, twisted inside their scorched armor, bodies melted together with weapons that no longer resembled steel. This wasn’t battle. This wasn’t even defeat. It was dismantling. Erasure, written across every street.

At a broken intersection, Jungkook raised a hand. The others stilled instantly, pressed into the fractured wall. Breath caught. Hearts pounding in silence.

Movement at the far end.

Two Lensing Necros slid into view. Hunters. Their faces weren’t faces anymore—just sensor arrays clicking and rotating, optical lenses glinting, sniffing the air like machines that remembered what it was to stalk prey. Their limbs moved with surgical patience, precise, measured, efficient.

And behind them came something worse.

Irgun the Strange.

Massive. Monstrous. Half man, mostly machine. His skull was split by a blade fused directly into bone, curved like a crescent moon. His body was built on weight, on endurance, every step slow but final, like the world itself shifted to make room for him. He didn’t carry suffering—he wore it, piece by piece, armor made of his own torment.

Jungkook’s eyes fixed on him. His fingers twitched toward the blade at his hip. Then stilled. Not yet. Timing mattered more than pride. More than vengeance.

Behind him, Samara kept one steady hand on Dae’s shoulder. The girl pressed close but did not cry. Namjoon stood pale and rigid, his mouth already forming the words of a decision he had not spoken.

The Necros marched past the intersection. Almost.

One of the Lensing units halted. Its head swiveled, sensors whirring, locking onto something invisible but inevitable. With slow precision, it pivoted toward the alley.

Namjoon stepped out before anyone else could move.

“Over here!” he shouted, arms spread wide. His voice cut sharp through the night.

Irgun’s gaze snapped instantly to him. The second Lensing followed. And then they were moving—fast, relentless, unstoppable. Namjoon turned and ran.

Back in the alley, one Lensing unit and a foot soldier remained. Their steps quickened.

Crack.

The Lensing’s head snapped sideways, sparks spraying in short, violent bursts. Jungkook stood behind it, calm, unreadable. “Nighty night,” he muttered as the machine sagged into silence. His blade flashed once more, slipping into the seam beneath the soldier’s collar. No flourish. Just clean work.

Far ahead, Namjoon reached the bridge, lungs burning, legs screaming. Behind him, Irgun dropped like a meteor. Stone shattered under his landing, the bridge trembling with the weight of him.

Namjoon stopped running.

They locked eyes. For a moment, nothing else existed. Then Namjoon struck first—blade flashing with the last of his strength, fury and faith packed into one desperate arc.

It wasn’t enough.

By the time Jungkook reached the bridge, the world had gone still. Too still. Smoke curled thin through the gaps. Debris shifted faintly. The bodies were gone—erased, or dragged away—but the blood remained.

Jungkook followed the trail to the parapet. He looked down into the rubble.

Namjoon lay broken in the canal’s dust, twisted, unmoving. The failing light painted everything the color of blood. He looked like a man dropped from too high and left to die alone.

Jungkook vaulted the ledge in a single motion, landing hard beside him. He knelt, pressed two fingers against his neck.

There. Faint. Barely. But there.

“Stubborn bastard,” Jungkook muttered, hooking his arms under Namjoon’s shoulders and lifting him clear. The weight was nothing. The guilt was crushing. He should’ve been faster. Should’ve stopped it. But all that mattered now was moving.

He carried Namjoon through the burning arteries of the city—past husks of homes, scorched storefronts, alleys heavy with ash. Behind them, the sky collapsed block by block under white fire. Jungkook never looked back.

Near the river, the tunnels still hummed faintly with power—warmth that felt almost like life. Samara and Dae crouched under a collapsed archway, fear carved plain across their faces. Samara saw them first. Her eyes dropped to Namjoon. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“He’s alive,” Jungkook said, lowering him gently. “Ribs. Maybe worse. But he’s breathing.”

Samara fell to her knees, trembling, murmuring Namjoon’s name like it might tether him to the world. Jungkook let her work, then crouched beside Dae.

The girl looked up at him. Her gaze steady. No fear. Something older. Something heavier. Trust.

“You came back,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, brushing dust from her coat. “I do that sometimes.”

In the distance, an engine rumbled.

Jungkook rose, turned to Samara. “North side of the freight depot. Tunnel buried under a tram collapse. It’ll take you past the perimeter. No sensors.”

Her eyes flickered. “And you?”

“I’ll draw them off.” The words came simple, certain.

She nodded once. Together they strapped Namjoon onto a makeshift sled—broken signage lashed with tarp and cord. Jungkook tied the knots himself, checking every hold, every balance.

He crouched one last time beside Namjoon.

“You still owe me,” he murmured. “Don’t make me drag you through two wars to collect.”

Then he rose, stepped into the smoke, and was gone before either could speak.

Samara and Dae hauled Namjoon toward the tunnel, inch by agonizing inch, their progress swallowed by shadow. It wasn’t fast, wasn’t graceful—just desperate, each drag and shuffle driven by stubborn will. The dark closed around them like a throat, swallowing their shapes one fragment at a time. But it was enough. Enough to move him. Enough to keep him alive.

Jungkook disappeared the other way—into the fire, into the shriek of collapsing steel and the chorus of panicked voices. He didn’t run to win, didn’t fight to survive. His purpose was singular: to make himself seen. To draw every gaze, every rifle barrel, every scanner feed onto him and away from them. He was the flame burning brightest so they could hide in shadow.

Inside the tunnel, Samara sank hard to her knees beside Namjoon. Her hands searched him frantically, brushing across his chest, his ribs, his face, as if by touching every part of him she might find one place where she could start. His head lolled sideways, too heavy to hold on its own, and she caught it in her palms like something precious, fragile.

“Joon,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, catching on the edge of fear she had tried so hard not to show Dae. “Tell me what to do. Please—tell me.”

The answer came jagged, torn from him in a cough that raked deep and wet through his chest. The sound made her flinch, her eyes clenching shut before she forced them open again. His lids fluttered, heavy, and then his gaze found hers, glassy, half-unfocused, but still trying to hold her.

“We can’t leave,” he rasped, each word frayed and dragging. “The pods… first thing they’ll destroy… the launch bays.”

Samara leaned closer, brushing the sweat and soot from his temple with her thumb. Her voice was a thread, thin and breaking. “Then where? Joon—where do we go?”

His chest hitched once, a shallow breath that rattled. “Hide,” he whispered. “We just… need a place to hide. Long enough.”

Her hands trembled as they smoothed back the damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead. She felt the heat in his skin, the weakness in his breath, and hated the helplessness curling in her own chest.

“Should I call your friend?” she asked. “The pilot? She’ll come.”

His head shifted weakly in the ghost of a shake. He drew in another breath, steadied himself on the edge of pain. “No. She’s been through too much. Don’t… don’t drag her into this.” His voice broke, then steadied just enough. “Call Min. Director Min. Number’s in my phone. He needs to know. Everything. What we’ve seen. What’s coming.”

Dae moved before Samara could respond. The little girl crawled up against him, climbing carefully onto his lap as though she’d done it a hundred times before. Her small arms circled his chest gently, mindful of his broken frame, her cheek pressing against him the way she did on nights when nightmares woke her. She tilted her face upward, eyes glimmering in the dim light.

“Appa?” she whispered. “What’s happening?”

Namjoon’s gaze dropped, his vision swimming. For a moment he couldn’t see her clearly—just a blur, dark hair and pale cheeks—but he forced himself to breathe through cracked ribs and the choke of fear rising in his throat. He blinked until her eyes sharpened in the gloom.

“I don’t know, habibi,” he said softly, the endearment breaking on his tongue. “But it’s going to be okay. Mama’s a doctor, remember? She’ll fix me up.”

His trembling hand found her hair, smoothing it back, combing through the strands like he had a thousand times before. “Then we’ll stay in the basement for a bit. Just like we planned. Hide out for a while. You remember?”

Dae nodded slowly. Her mouth stayed flat, but she pressed tighter against him, holding him as if her arms could keep him from unraveling.

Samara’s eyes burned as she blinked hard against the sting of tears. She swallowed once, sharp, and reached for his comm unit with shaking hands. The night outside still howled—sirens, fire, machines—but in that narrow throat of tunnel, pressed close together with nothing but a flickering signal and a promise too fragile to believe in, they clung to it anyway.

A plan. Thin as paper. Necessary as breath.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The Basilica doors groaned as they swung inward, a sound stretched long and low, vibrating through the stone like the echo of something ancient roused from sleep. It was not a welcome. It was a warning. The weight of the hinges carried centuries of silence breaking, and the voice of it traveled deep into the hall, settling into marrow.

No light spilled in to soften the edges. Instead, shadow rolled forward—dense, heavy, absolute. It pooled across the floor like smoke bleeding from a collapsed star, thick enough to smother breath, thick enough to erase shape and time.

And then he entered.

The Lord Marshal.

He stepped through the threshold with the certainty of a man who had never been denied. He seemed carved not from flesh but from the dark itself—tall, angular, deliberate in every movement. His pace was unhurried, but each step altered the air. The temperature sank with him, a slow, inexorable chill, as if the Basilica itself recoiled in recognition. Light caught him but failed to hold, sliding off him like water against obsidian, making him appear less real—more statue than man, more myth than body. His cloak trailed in whispers across the stone, a dry rasp like brittle bone dragged over marble.

He did not come alone.

From the well of shadow behind him, his lieutenants emerged, each shaped by a different form of menace. Taehyung followed closest, his stride smooth, graceful—the kind of grace that belonged to fire: beautiful to watch, impossible to contain, inevitable in destruction. Behind him loomed Scales, grotesque in armor that bulged with cruelty, every plate scarred by the memory of violence. Toal walked with no sound at all, his silence unreadable, more threat than absence. And then came the Purifier—his presence bending the space around him, warping air and silence alike, carrying with him the suffocating pressure of a sermon about to begin, the certainty that judgment was not optional.

Beyond the Basilica walls, the Necromonger Conquest Symphony swelled. It was not music but a dirge, a sustained lament pressed into rhythm, the sound of inevitability given form. The tones sank into bone and hollowed it. They stretched over the city like a shroud.

Above, the sky bore witness. Warrior Ships drifted through the clouds—vast, monolithic, their hulls scarred by wars no world had survived. They did not move quickly. They did not need to. They carried the patience of glaciers, the inevitability of mountains collapsing into sea. Each one was a monument dredged from some graveyard of lost civilizations, hovering now as proof of erasure.

The Marshal reached the Basilica’s high steps and paused. From that height, Helion Prime lay open before him. Fog softened the domes and spires, painted the capital in dreamlike strokes, but the illusion could not hold. Dreams dissolve at dawn, and this dawn had teeth.

His voice came quiet, almost casual. The tone betrayed no effort, no weight, yet it struck the air with the resonance of command: “Time to replenish the ranks.”

The procession moved forward. Not hurried. Not eager. Certain. The way pallbearers carry a coffin. The way a funeral proceeds when no one is left to mourn.

And then the sky tore.

Two Necro fighters screamed low across the plaza, their engines burning air into shrieks. The strike came with surgical precision. The Helion crest—stone carved with pride and centuries of identity—shattered under the blast. Its fragments fell in waves, stone and steel crashing together. In a heartbeat, pride was rubble. History reduced to dust.

The Basilica steps stretched before him, broad and solemn, carved for triumphal processions that once celebrated light. Now they carried only shadow. The Lord Marshal descended without haste, each footfall a decree, his cloak dragging whispers along the stone. His lieutenants followed in his wake like shades, bound not by loyalty but by the gravity of his will.

Helion Prime burned beneath them.

The fog that once softened its domes had turned to smoke, thick and acrid, choking the skyline. Towers that had glittered with solar glass now gaped hollow, their ribs speared upward in flame. Streets were a lattice of fire and ruin—collapsing trams, crumpled markets, bodies scattered as punctuation marks in a story already ended. The cries of civilians drifted thinly through the air, almost lost beneath the groan of collapsing steel and the steady thrum of Necro engines above.

He did not turn away. He watched.

Every detail entered him without judgment. A mother dragging her child through ash. A squadron of Helion guards breaking in retreat, their weapons cast aside. Priests clutching relics that would not save them. It was all the same. The living and the dead were equal once they had been claimed. The city’s collapse was not victory. It was procedure.

Above, the Warrior Ships shifted their positions with glacier-slow precision, blotting the sun. Their shadows crawled across the Basilica plaza, washing over broken statues and shattered mosaics of gods long silenced. The Necromonger Symphony adjusted with them, a dirge swelling louder, echoing through stone and smoke.

The Marshal moved down into the city. His lieutenants fanned around him, silent but certain—Taehyung graceful as a knife drawn, Scales grinding metal against metal with each step, the Purifier carrying his hush like a suffocating cloth. Civilians scattered at the sight of them, but none escaped. The Necro ranks were already sweeping the avenues, faceless soldiers pulling survivors into lines, branding choice into flesh: Convert. Or vanish.

He passed through them as though through mist. None slowed him. None dared. His path was already fixed.

Toward the Capitol Dome.

It rose from the city’s heart, half-shrouded in smoke, its once-gilded surface fractured by bombardments. Stained glass windows gaped open, their divine figures shattered, shards raining like colored rain. Its great arches groaned but held, a monument to stubbornness in the face of inevitability. Beneath those arches, the last shreds of Helion government had gathered—lawmakers, generals, priests, and civilians clinging to the thought that ceremony could protect them from collapse.

The Marshal’s gaze did not waver. He knew their type. He had seen them in every world: leaders who mistook delay for defiance, who wrapped fear in rhetoric, who thought that words could outlast the silence pressing in. They would not come to him. He would go to them.

He crossed the central boulevard, moving through ruin with the patience of stone. A solar beacon lay toppled across the street, its carcass still glowing faintly with trapped light. He stepped over it without pause. Around him, Necro soldiers dragged bodies into piles, stripped weapons from the hands of the fallen, and marched new converts into ranks. The cries of the unconverted rose briefly, then ended—cleanly, without drama.

When he reached the Dome’s outer steps, he stopped.

Smoke curled through its broken archways, voices echoing faintly within. The sound was not strength. It was desperation—debate collapsed into noise, survival dressed in scripture and law. He had heard it a hundred times before, and it always ended the same.

The Marshal lifted his head, and his voice carried—not shouted, not strained. Calm. Even. A blade laid flat on stone.

“Bring them to me.”

Taehyung ascended first, his armor catching firelight, his weapon gleaming like an extension of his hand. The others followed, shadows moving ahead of shadow. The Necro ranks formed at the base of the steps, their silence louder than any chant.

The Dome awaited. And so did submission.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Inside the Capitol Dome, Helion’s last leaders had gathered. Generals in tattered uniforms, ministers clutching datapads like talismans, clerics with prayer beads slipping endlessly through their fingers. They clustered together at the center of the chamber, not united but bound by the same dread, like prisoners waiting for a verdict they already knew would fall against them.

Around them, the Necro Elites stood in flawless formation, lining the vast rotunda. Their armor caught the faint light, black surfaces rippling with the sheen of oil. They made no sound, no gesture, no sign of breath. Yet their stillness was heavier than any shouted threat, pressing down on every Helion official until shoulders hunched and spines bent without realizing it.

The great doors groaned open.

The sound alone silenced the chamber. A long, drawn-out creak, like ancient stone breaking. The air shifted, colder, sharper, as if the Dome itself recoiled. Then he entered.

The Lord Marshal.

No fanfare. No announcement. Only the steady thud of boots against marble and the faint rattle of bone and steel woven into his armor. His presence carried more weight than ceremony ever could. He didn’t need to speak, not yet. His silence filled the space until every man and woman inside felt smaller for existing in it.

The Purifier stepped forward, robes whispering against the floor. He took the center with the grace of a priest stepping to a pulpit. His voice was smooth, almost soothing, but its calmness was a blade hidden in velvet.

“In this ‘Verse,” he said, tone measured, “life resists the Natural Order. Humanity is noise—chaos dressed as meaning.”

The words slid through the chamber like smoke, seeping into lungs, unavoidable. He let the silence linger, then continued.

“But there is another ‘Verse. The UnderVerse. Beyond chaos. Beyond pain. Beyond fear. To reach it, we must pass through what you call death.”

At first, silence held. Then came a whisper—fragile, tentative. Another followed. Soon the chamber pulsed with it, voices rising and overlapping, weak but desperate.

“The Threshold. Take us to the Threshold.”

The Purifier smiled faintly, the expression polished and poisonous. “What you call the Threshold,” he said softly, “we call death.”

And then the Lord Marshal spoke. His voice was not raised. It didn’t need to be. It came like stone splitting under unbearable weight.

“Every Necromonger here was once like you. Weak. Doubtful. Afraid. Now they are converted.”

The weight of his words settled over the hall, but one man still moved. An elder cleric, white beard trembling, eyes sharp with pride that pain had not yet broken. He stepped forward, his staff clutched like a shield, his voice carrying across the chamber.

“We will never renounce our faiths,” he declared. “This world honors many paths. That is our strength.”

The Lord Marshal did not argue. He did not threaten. He moved.

Not quickly. Not slowly. Simply without hesitation, as though the outcome had been decided long before this moment. A spectral arm—red, translucent, silent—unfurled from his side and extended through the cleric’s chest.

There was no scream. No words. Only a soft, wet rupture as breath left the man for the last time. He crumpled like paper, body folding against the marble floor. Something unseen—whether soul or memory—fractured in the air and scattered like ash.

The Lord Marshal withdrew, his gaze sweeping across the chamber with the inevitability of judgment.

“Who now,” he asked, voice cutting clean, “will bow?”

One by one, they bent. Some slowly, shame carved into their faces. Some trembling, knees giving out under the weight of survival. Some quick, eager, betraying everything in the hope of living another hour. But all bent.

All except one.

At the far edge of the chamber, apart from the trembling mass, a figure stood. Still. Silent. Watching.

Jungkook Jeon.

His hands rested at his sides. His face betrayed nothing. And while every other body in the room folded, bent, broke—he did not bow.

Taehyung exhaled softly through his nose, a sigh so faint it might have been mistaken for boredom. “There’s always one,” he murmured. His boots carried him forward with unhurried precision, movements fluid, almost lazy—the stride of a man repeating a ritual he’d already mastered a dozen times. He stopped a few feet from Jungkook, tilting his head the way a collector might study a rare piece, cataloging every line, every flaw.

“This is your chance,” Taehyung said. His tone was calm, clipped clean of threat, unreadable. “One chance to accept Lord Marshal’s mercy.”

Jungkook didn’t blink. His jaw flexed once, restless energy sparking sharp in his eyes. “I bow to no man.”

Taehyung’s gaze didn’t flicker. “He’s not a man. He’s seen the UnderVerse.”

“Still not my thing,” Jungkook said. His voice was low, cold, cutting—like ice shearing from a frozen lake. Then his gaze slid past Taehyung, fixing on the hulking mass behind him. “But him? I’ll take a piece of him.”

Irgun loomed at the edge of the chamber—grotesque, towering, more machine than man. Armor fused with flesh until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. A curved dagger jutted from his skull, embedded deep into bone—a relic of an old wound carried like a crown. His body was covered in scars, some fresh, some ancient, all of them etched into brutalist plates of metal. The sound of his blades dragging against the floor was like steel longing to bite.

Lord Marshal’s smile was faint, mocking. “This is Irgun. One of my best, breeder.”

Jungkook shrugged once, dismissive. “That supposed to mean something?”

Irgun roared. The sound shook the marble, rattled the chamber’s stained glass. Then he charged.

The blades cut the air in twin arcs—one low for the legs, one high for the neck. It wasn’t wild rage. It was practiced. A routine sharpened by decades of slaughter. A motion designed to end fights before they had time to begin.

But Jungkook wasn’t there.

He dropped low, body twisting. His elbow drove into Irgun’s gut with a sharp crack. The giant staggered, but his recovery was fast—too fast. He swung wide. Steel scraped across Jungkook’s shoulder, fabric tearing, blood blooming.

The pain lit something inside him. A fuse.

Jungkook pressed harder. Faster. Sharper. Irgun’s strikes came heavy, brutal, relentless, but Jungkook’s counters were precise. A strike to the knee. A pivot at the hip. A backhand into the base of the skull. Not killing blows. Not yet. But enough to chip away at the monster’s certainty.

Irgun stumbled. The grin on his face faltered. Doubt flickered in his eyes.

Jungkook saw it. And he smiled back. Cold. Personal.

They collided again. Irgun’s blade sparked against stone. Jungkook slipped inside his guard, hooked an arm around the thick column of his neck, and held tight even as Irgun slammed him into a pillar. The marble cracked. Blood filled Jungkook’s mouth.

He didn’t let go.

The dagger was right there. Inches from his face. A trophy. A mistake.

Jungkook’s hand shot up, fingers gripping the hilt. He yanked.

The blade tore free with a wet, ripping sound. Irgun screamed, staggering, his massive hands flailing. One blow caught Jungkook’s ribs, another grazed his hand, but it didn’t matter. The weapon was his now.

Jungkook twisted under his chin and drove the blade into the soft base of Irgun’s skull.

Everything stopped.

Irgun stiffened, twitched once, then collapsed. His bulk hit the floor like a toppled tower, stone shuddering under the weight.

Jungkook stood over him, chest heaving, blood running hot down his side. The dagger—Irgun’s dagger—gleamed in his hand, wet with ruin.

The chamber didn’t cheer. Didn’t hiss. Didn’t breathe. They just watched. Because they understood.

A man had walked into their house, chosen the biggest monster, and cut him down with his own weapon.

Jungkook flicked the blood from the blade and lifted his eyes to Taehyung. “A piece,” he said. His tone flat. Certain. “Like I promised.”

At the far end of the hall, Lord Marshal’s expression barely shifted, but his eyes narrowed, sharp with interest.

Jungkook turned to leave. No pose. No speech. Just a man walking away from a body.

“Stay.”

The word struck the chamber like a wall. Not shouted—commanded.

Jungkook’s hand brushed the dagger’s hilt again, every nerve on edge, as he turned back.

Lord Marshal descended the high stairs. Each step was deliberate, thunder rolling slow through the hush. The air thickened, heavy as storm clouds. No one moved. No one breathed.

He glanced once at the corpse. “One of my best.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “If you say so.”

“A rare skill,” Lord Marshal said, his voice low. “Turning a man’s strength into his end. Do you like the blade?”

Jungkook flipped it once in his hand, testing its balance. “Back end’s a little heavy.”

The faintest ghost of a smile touched the Marshal’s lips. “In our faith, we say: you keep what you kill.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. But he didn’t drop the blade either.

The Marshal studied him. “You seem familiar. Have we crossed before?”

Jungkook’s shrug was effortless. “You’d think I’d remember.”

The silence stretched, drawn taut. Then the Marshal turned his gaze to Taehyung. “Bring him to the Quasi-Deads.”

The guards advanced in rhythm, steps slow but absolute. They weren’t rushing. They didn’t need to. The order was enough.

Jungkook shifted—shoulders loosening, knees bending, his stance sinking into the floor. Ready. If they came at him, he’d cut through them too.

But before the first soldier closed the distance, a voice slid through the chamber. Smooth. Low. Laced with humor and venom.

“Maybe he’d consider it… if someone just asked.”

Every head turned.

She emerged from the shadows like the room had been waiting for her all along. Steps unhurried. Posture unshakable. A presence that carried its own gravity. Her olive skin caught the dim light; her hair fell like wheat brushed by firelight; her eyes were feline, sharp, perpetually amused. Symmetry made her striking, but her nose—strong, proud, curved like a blade—made her unforgettable.

She wore black cut to perfection, every seam precise. Jewels glimmered faintly, subtle as the confidence in her stride. Wealth clung to her like perfume.

And Jungkook’s first thought, unguarded, was simple.

Lovely .

She stopped in front of him and lifted her chin, meeting his gaze without hesitation. There was no awe in her eyes, no fear. Only curiosity. Interest sharpened into something personal, as though she were measuring him the same way he had already measured her.

“An invitation to Necropolis,” she said at last, lips curving into a smile that wasn’t soft, wasn’t kind—just deliberate. “A rare honor. I’m Pia. Would you like to see it with me?”

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The air thickened, colder, as though some invisible thread had been pulled taut across the chamber. The Lord Marshal didn’t move, but his silence pressed harder, heavier, than any order he could have given. Taehyung’s jaw tightened. His shoulders squared, hands curling at his sides like claws waiting to unsheathe. Around them, Necro Elites stiffened, the rhythm of the hall broken and re-formed by her intrusion.

Jungkook took his time. His gaze traveled over her once, slow, deliberate—not lingering, but weighing, as though he was trying to decide whether she was a threat or a temptation. His mouth twisted into something that might have been a grin, but there was nothing warm in it. It was sharp, mocking, edged with teeth.

“Stray piece?” he asked, voice flat, edged in challenge.

“Mine,” Taehyung said instantly, stepping forward like he meant to close the distance. His voice carried possession, not defense.

Jungkook didn’t even turn his head toward him. His eyes stayed on Pia, his grin widening just enough to cut. “Get in line.”

The tension snapped taut, wire-thin. No one moved. No one needed to. The violence was already in the air, humming like static, but it didn’t break—not yet. The fight had ended for the moment, and the moment was enough.

Jungkook shifted first. He walked forward, slow and steady, the dagger still loose in his hand, blood still wet on his boots, Irgun’s corpse cooling behind him. The crowd parted in silence, not because anyone had commanded it, but because no one knew what else to do.

Pia walked beside him.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The Basilica Ship opened before them—its inner corridors winding like veins carved into the body of something monstrous. The walls seemed made of things that had once lived: bone polished smooth and carved with symbols, blackened lattices of metal that hissed faintly as though they were still cooling from some ancient fire. The air itself carried a pulse, a low hum like blood running through a vein. It wasn’t a building. It was alive. Sick.

“Six regimes have ruled from here,” Pia said, her voice quieter now, though not reverent. Almost intimate. “Each one convinced they would be the last. Each one wrong.”

Jungkook’s eyes slid across the grotesque walls, taking in every etched scar, every shadow. “Hell of a design choice,” he muttered.

Behind them, footsteps echoed. The Purifier followed at an easy pace, his hands clasped, that same thin smile never leaving his face. “Each of us would’ve done it differently,” he said, smooth as glass, certain as gravity. “And that is why we are here. To continue where the others failed.”

They passed beneath a bridge overhead. Bodies hung there, twisted and stretched, suspended in patterns that were almost artistic if not for the faces—mouths open mid-scream, eyes frozen in some final, unfinished plea.

“Converts,” the Purifier murmured, his voice warm, as though he were offering comfort. “They found peace. Eventually.”

Jungkook looked up once, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked over the bodies, then forward again. He didn’t comment.

The halls narrowed as if the Basilica itself were closing its throat. Light faded until it wasn’t light at all but a faint, sickly glow seeping through cracks in the walls. The air grew colder, not with draft but with weight, a chill that clung inside the lungs instead of around the skin. This wasn’t architecture anymore. It wasn’t stone, or steel, or design. It felt like anatomy. The walls breathed faintly, pulsing under that glow, as though the place itself was asleep—but dreaming.

The Quasi Grotto.

Pia stopped at the threshold. Her expression didn’t soften, didn’t change, but her steps ended clean. She would go no farther.

“He goes alone,” the Purifier said, his voice smooth as lacquer.

Jungkook didn’t even glance at her. He didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside.

The door sealed with a groan, the sound dragging long and low like stone grinding against stone. It didn’t feel like protection. It sounded like entombment. The lock clicked once, echoing too loud in the dark. Then silence.

He stood in it. Not alone. Not exactly. Something was there. Not seen. Not heard. Just present. Watching. Waiting.

Through the sealed door, Pia’s voice filtered faint, stripped of charm, stripped of warmth—clinical now. “The more you fight them, the worse it gets.”

His brow furrowed. Them?

He tried to form an answer, even a thought, but the words dissolved before they reached his tongue. Not forgotten. Stolen. Something inside the room had taken them.

Then the thought returned, bent, distorted. Echoed.

Who the hell is them?

The room answered. Not in words, but in weight. The air pressed harder. The walls leaned closer. A vibration crawled low, rising up through the floor and into his bones. It wasn’t a sound. It was a chorus without shape, a hum that rattled the marrow.

Jungkook froze, pulse hammering against his throat. His eyes scanned the shadows, every corner, every recess. But nothing moved. Nothing breathed. This wasn’t being hunted. This was being opened.

Whatever lived here wasn’t watching him. It was inside him.

His jaw clenched. His breath came shallow and sharp. He knew the feel of being cornered. He’d lived it too many times. But this was different. There was no predator to track. No chase to counter. Just something already under the skin.

Outside, in a narrow chamber cut into the steel, the Lord Marshal stood at a viewport no larger than his hand. His expression unreadable, his posture unshaken.

“Any time,” he said softly.

The Purifier raised a hand, light blooming faint and pale in his palm.

Inside, the pressure dropped like a hammer.

Jungkook collapsed. Knees cracked against stone, shoulder slamming down after them. Air shot from his lungs. The weight wasn’t just on him. It was in him. Behind his eyes—knives. Through his teeth—splinters. His fingertips burned like they were being peeled away.

They were in.

The air thickened, rancid and metallic, like breathing rust and rot.

He ground his teeth and pushed against the floor, but his arms didn’t feel like his own. His legs refused him. Around him, Necro guards stood in perfect silence, statues of black steel. Not watching. Not helping. As if this was just another day, another trial.

High above, behind smoked glass, Pia and Taehyung leaned against the mezzanine rail. They didn’t speak. They didn’t blink. They simply watched.

The walls stirred.

Panels cracked open in quiet lines. Cylinders rolled out of hidden recesses, shuddering as if reluctant to leave their cages. One by one, the shells split, shedding blackened layers. Inside were bodies. Shriveled. Twisted. Veiled husks that might once have been human but had been leeched hollow.

The Quasi-Deads.

Their arrival curdled the air, made it heavy, viscous. Moving through it was like forcing through oil.

Their mouths never moved. Their bodies barely stirred. But Jungkook heard them all the same.

Who is he? Why does he resist? What did the envoy mean?

The voices weren’t sound. They were knives scraping inside his skull. They dragged up failures he never spoke of, guilt he buried deep, anger he carried like scar tissue.

He growled low, shaking his head as if he could fling them off. Always fight. That was the rule. Always fight.

But they didn’t fight fair.

Memory , one voice whispered. Regret. Rage. Yes. Strong. You think it shields you. It only makes you loud.

His body convulsed. Not pain. Not exactly. The feeling was worse. He wasn’t being hurt. He was being opened.

The Purifier’s hand pulsed again.

And Jungkook was gone.

Not here. Not now. His mind was yanked backward like a chain hooked through his spine. Streets long destroyed. Voices long dead. A name that still cut when he heard it. Her name. The Quasies were feeding, clawing deeper.

Furyan… one thought slithered. Why does he frighten her?

Outside the viewport, Lord Marshal’s eyes narrowed. His fingers flexed once against the railing.

“Again,” he said. “Push him back. Go deeper. Years.”

The weight burrowed harder. Behind his eyes. Behind his memories. Not watching. Rewriting.

The grotto pulsed once, like a massive heart. Jungkook’s back arched. His cry tore free, sharp and raw, but the sound collapsed under the pressure.

Above, Pia finally spoke. Her voice was soft, almost bemused. “Have you ever seen him like this?”

Taehyung didn’t look at her. His expression was stone. “Like what?”

Her head tilted, her tone almost playful. “Worried.”

“I don’t see it,” he said flatly.

Maybe he didn’t. But the air had changed. Heavy. Close. In the pit, Jungkook’s body locked like steel cable wound too tight. Every muscle rigid, fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. He wasn’t resisting anymore. He was bracing.

And then the memory hit.

Not a whisper. Not an image. A blow. It slammed into him, pure momentum, a freight train lined with barbed wire through his skull.

Darkness swallowed everything. Not empty. Consuming.

From the void, a hand emerged. Massive. Unnatural. Carved from obsidian and ice. Beneath it, a planet cracked, veins of earth splitting wide. From those wounds spilled infants—newborns, slick and silent, sliding out of the broken soil. They didn’t cry. They didn’t breathe. They just drifted, swallowed whole by the void.

But one—only one—clung. Small. Fragile. Barely there. But it clung to the giant hand.

Jungkook jerked as if struck. His chest heaved, his breath fractured, sweat pouring cold down his face and into the cut on his cheek.

Don’t let it in.

But it was already inside. In his blood. In the shape of his thoughts.

Lord Marshal’s voice slid into the weight like poison into water—soft, patient, invasive. 

“Where did he come from? What world? I need to know.”

The Quasi-Deads stirred. Their husks didn’t move, but something within them pulsed, vibrating the air. Their whispers rose. No longer questions. Commands.

Keep him out. Shut it down. Too deep. He sees too much…

The voices weren’t outside. They were in his bones. His breath shattered. Fingers spasmed. His throat seized. No scream came. The pressure crushed even that.

The grotto kept pulsing. And he braced for the next strike.

Then Pia’s voice cut through the murk, calm, clinical, stripped of any pretense. “He’s scanning the Quasies.”

The words mattered. They landed like sparks on dry tinder. Heads turned. The Purifier’s smile thinned. Even Lord Marshal stiffened, the faintest ripple in his otherwise immovable form.

Down in the pit, the Quasi-Deads twitched violently. Their husks, their veiled shells, groaned under the strain, cages older than memory beginning to crack. Jungkook wasn’t just resisting anymore. He wasn’t just enduring.

He was breaking them.

And they knew it.

Kill the Jungkook. Kill the Jungkook. KILL THE JUNGKOOK.

The chant swelled all at once, not sound but force, crashing over him like a tidal wave. The air warped with it, bending under pressure. Jungkook’s body convulsed, every muscle locking against the psychic weight. His knees shook, his chest seized, his vision fractured.

But something inside him held. Small. Quiet. Stubborn. The same spark that once clung to a giant’s hand in the void, refusing to let go when everything else slipped away. That was still there. That had never left.

His fingernails carved half-moons into his palms. His jaw ached, locked against the scream that threatened to rip free. His eyes blurred, red streaking down his nose. But he did not break.

A sharp gesture from the Purifier.

The gravity ripped out. Metal groaned as the floor buckled, and Jungkook slammed chest-first into the stone. The impact forced the air from his lungs in a brutal wheeze, pain blooming across his ribs like fire.

But he didn’t stay down.

His palms scraped across the grit, searching, searching—until they closed around it. Cold steel. Familiar weight. Irgun’s dagger. The one he’d earned. The one they had overlooked. His grip tightened until the edge bit his skin. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was proof. A reminder. His.

He rose.

Not fast. Not triumphant. But certain. His blood ran down in a thin stream from his nose, his ribs groaned with every breath, his legs trembled under him—but he stood.

Above, Lord Marshal hadn’t moved. But his gaze cut sharper now, like a blade testing for weakness.

“Kill the Jungkook.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They carried more weight than the roar of armies.

Everything broke at once.

The Elites dropped from the walls in a single breath—armored shadows falling like knives, weapons raised. Taehyung followed in their wake, fluid as water, eyes locked sharp, blades flashing into his hands.

But Jungkook was already moving.

The first Elite lunged. The dagger flashed, a line of silver in the dark. One step, one cut, and the soldier folded, armor clattering as he dropped.

The second came from the right. Jungkook ducked low, and a gravity blast tore past his head—slamming straight into the attacker instead. Bone and steel folded in on themselves with a sound that turned the stomach.

Jungkook snatched the rifle from the crumpled body, spun it in his hands, fired once. The shot dropped another Elite. Then he moved, every step precise, clean, a rhythm honed by years of fighting in places designed to kill men like him.

Through the haze he saw it—a Quasi retreating, its grotesque shell hissing as it sealed shut, slinking back into its chamber.

Jungkook sprinted. He slammed his hand onto the shell, fingers digging into the slick, bone-like surface as it tried to close.

Footsteps behind him. Fast. Familiar.

Taehyung.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He wrenched the Quasi toward the breach in the wall, forcing himself through the narrowing gap just as the aperture sealed behind him. The sound was heavy, final, like stone dropped into water.

Silence.

Taehyung froze at the threshold. His jaw tightened, chest rising once, sharp and heavy. His fists curled at his sides, rage pressed tight behind discipline.

Pia lingered at the chamber’s edge. Still. Watching. Something unmoored itself in her chest—a shift she couldn’t name. He wasn’t following rules. He wasn’t breaking them either. He was burning through them, as if rules were paper and he was fire. Violence clung to him like a second skin, but there was something else threaded through it—something unsettling. For the first time in years, she felt it. A flicker of unease.

“Who is this man?” she whispered.

Deep below, in the Basilica’s engine belly, the air was hotter, thicker. Tenders moved through the smoke and hiss of pressure vents, their bodies long adapted to the rhythm of machinery and survival. The massive gravity cores pulsed in uneven bursts, rattling walls with each surge. None of them flinched. This was their life.

Until the sound came.

One impact. Heavy. Close. Then another. Louder. The third cracked the ceiling.

Metal shrieked. Stone split. Sparks showered.

And something dropped through—fast, heavy, precise.

A man.

He landed in a crouch, coat spilling around him like smoke from a dying fire. Then he rose. His eyes swept the room once, sharp, clinical. His face didn’t shift. His breath didn’t change. He didn’t reach for his weapon. He didn’t need to. He just moved, steady, deliberate, toward the central engine shaft.

The tenders stepped back, silent. No questions. No resistance. They recognized judgment when they saw it.

Jungkook reached the edge of the shaft, peered down. Far below, a thin blade of daylight pierced through twisted supports and corroded steel. A long drop. But open. A way out.

Then the orb descended.

A gravity stabilizer, the size of a transport, lowered into place with a steady hum. Its core spun like sawblades, sensors locking onto him in unison.

Jungkook didn’t flinch.

His hand went to the pistol at his hip—but not to fire. He ripped it free, spun it once in his grip, and hurled it straight at the stabilizer. The weapon spun end over end, catching the dim light before vanishing into the orb’s intake.

The detonation was brutal, immediate. No drawn-out spectacle, no warning. Just a violent bloom of fire and shrapnel. The stabilizer shrieked as its core ruptured, metal tearing itself apart in a scream that rattled the chamber. Gravity buckled, warped, then collapsed in on itself.

Through the chaos, Jungkook jumped.

The drop tore past his ears, wind howling like a living thing. The impact when he landed was bone-deep, slamming through his ribs and knees, but he rolled with it, let the motion carry him, and came up running. No pause. No hesitation. Always forward.

The underside of the Basilica was a graveyard. Crushed towers lay snapped in half, their spines of rebar jutting like broken bones. Pavement gaped open in jagged seams. Oil slicks and severed power lines bled across the rubble. Soldiers’ bodies were strewn among it all, twisted inside scorched armor, weapons melted into formless scrap.

This wasn’t conquest. It wasn’t even defeat. It was dismantling. Erasure.

Jungkook didn’t look back. He didn’t care what Helion Prime had been. The city’s history meant nothing. Only what it was now: wreckage. And a way out.

Above, the sky split with the roar of engines.

Two sarcophagi screamed low across the clouds, hunting. Inside, rows of Necro soldiers sat in silence, their weapons already hot, their faces unreadable behind black visors. On the Basilica’s high steps, Taehyung vaulted into one of the transports, a shadow framed in smoke, armor burning with firelight as if it had been forged from it.

At the summit, Lord Marshal did not move. He did not need to. His words carried across the ruin like frost across glass.

“Whatever it takes.”

The city below was no longer a city. It was hollowed. Ash clung to stone and steel. Collapsed domes sagged like broken ribs. Banners once proud hung shredded into ribbons, twisting in the sour wind. Survivors wandered through it all like sleepwalkers—clothes ragged, faces gray, eyes emptied out.

None of them saw him pass. Except one.

A Meccan cleric, robes torn and streaked with soot, face bruised and bleeding, lifted his head as Jungkook passed. Recognition flickered, dim but certain. Jungkook didn’t return it. No nod. No pause. He kept moving.

Then came the whine of repulsors—sharp, surgical. The sarcophagus circled back overhead.

Jungkook slid into the ruins, pressed himself into the shadow of a collapsed overhang. He stilled his breath, body flattened against stone. Watched. Waited. The dropship skimmed low over rooftops, its scanners sweeping like the eyes of a predator.

And then he saw her.

A child. Barefoot. Standing beside the splintered remains of what had once been a market stall. Her face was streaked with dirt, her shoulders shaking. Tears carved pale lines down her cheeks.

The sound of her sob pierced him. Thin. Broken. It hit his chest like a blade. For a heartbeat, his lungs stopped. Dae. It had to be Dae.

He moved before thought could catch him. He snatched her up, pulled her close, stared at her face.

Not Dae. Just another frightened girl.

But his grip didn’t loosen. He didn’t put her down. He just ran harder.

Above, the sarcophagus screamed, engines pitching high. It had locked onto them.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, ducked into a half-collapsed doorway, and shoved the child inside with rough urgency. She stumbled, hit the wall, startled by his force. He crouched, met her eyes, his voice flat, final.

“Stay.”

Not gentle. Not negotiable. Then he was gone.

The street behind him erupted. Blasts ripped through stone, fire snapping across the walls, smoke billowing in suffocating waves. The Necros fired with machine precision—every shot measured, merciless.

Jungkook threaded through it like water through cracked stone—low, fast, unstoppable. His coat snapped in the slipstream, ash trailing behind him as if the city itself clung to his back.

Then the sky ripped open.

Three streaks cut across the clouds. Bright. Sharp. Arcing. Missiles .

They struck the dropship mid-dive.

The explosion cracked the sky wide, blooming into a fireball that swallowed the sarcophagus whole. Armor plates shattered midair, soldiers turned to ash before they ever hit the ground. The heat slapped Jungkook’s face raw, blistering the moisture from his eyes.

He didn’t stop. He dove low, slid beneath the storm of burning wreckage as it came down around him—steel shrieking, stone groaning as buildings folded under the impact.

Behind him, the sarcophagus crashed into a tower. The collapse screamed through the district like a wounded animal refusing to die.

Jungkook hit the ground hard. The shock rippled up his legs, flared through his ribs, but he let the pain ride instead of stopping him. He rolled once across the shattered stone, boots scraping against loose debris, and came up in a single fluid motion. His breath tore ragged through his throat—hot, metallic, raw. Every inhale stabbed fire across his ribs, but his eyes stayed sharp, cutting through the haze, searching.

The world was still burning. Smoke poured off collapsed walls. Ash floated down like dirty snow. Sparks hissed from broken power lines, and the air hummed with the aftertaste of detonations. For a moment, nothing moved. Just ruin, and the silence that pretends to be safety.

And then—click.

Too clean to be rubble. Too precise to be accident.

His head turned toward it.

Figures bled out of the smoke, black silhouettes sharpening with each step. Four of them. Weapons drawn, grips steady, stances practiced. Not panicked looters. Not conscripts. Professionals.

And at their center, as if the ruins had parted just to make room for him, stood the man Jungkook had buried in his mind more than once. The man who refused to stay dead.

King.

He hadn’t softened. If anything, the years had carved him harder. Shoulders still squared with that predator’s ease, jaw set like iron, and that grin—the same one Jungkook remembered—stretched across his face like armor, too practiced to be real, too dangerous to be ignored. The hood was gone now, nothing to hide behind. A scar carved jagged across his temple caught the faint light, a signature carved into flesh. His eyes carried the same old glint—sharp, smug, a promise of nothing good.

Jungkook didn’t move. He didn’t have to. Recognition passed between them in silence, stripped of ceremony, weighted by jobs done, blood spilled, debts unpaid. No greeting. No reunion. Just two men who had already measured each other too many times.

From the wreckage nearby, a comm unit crackled weakly, static snapping before a voice bled through. Young. Shaken. Trying to sound steady, failing.
“Another one circling… we should move. Move now.”

The rookies heard it. Their shoulders tightened, grips whitening on their weapons as they scanned the sky above the ruins. They were competent enough, maybe even seasoned by lesser fires. But not this. Not this theater. Not against this man. Their nerves showed in every twitch.

King didn’t share their urgency. He looked like he was on a morning stroll, like the chaos around them hadn’t touched him. He didn’t scan the sky. He didn’t even glance at his men. His grin only sharpened as he stepped forward, casual, deliberate, like the street itself was holding its breath for him.

Something flashed in his hand. He tossed it through the smoke. Metal clinked across stone, skipped twice, then spun to a stop at Jungkook’s feet.

Handcuffs. Scuffed. Dented. Still faintly warm from use.

“Two rookie mistakes,” King rasped. His voice carried the grit of smoke and too many bad years. He raised a single finger, his eyes never leaving Jungkook. “One—you don’t jack a ship with a hot beacon still screaming. Basic shit.”

Another step. His boots crunched softly on broken glass. The grin stretched wider, curling into something crueler. “Two—you should’ve iced me when you had the chance.”

He gave a short, low laugh. Not big. Not loud. Just enough to sink under the skin. The kind of laugh that told you he thought the game was already over.

“Any questions?”

Jungkook never looked at the cuffs. Not once. His eyes stayed locked on King’s, steady, cold, bottomless. Like a well you didn’t see the depth of until you were already falling in.

And then—just the faintest shift. His mouth tugged upward, the barest edge of a smile.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet, almost conversational. “What took you so long?”

The grin on King’s face cracked—just for a moment. Faltered into a scowl. He turned his head away stiffly, but the air around him shifted, tense, electric. The rookies stiffened, caught in a current they didn’t understand. Something unspoken hung between the two men, heavier than the ruin around them. Something coming.

Jungkook’s faint smile lingered, sharp and quiet, the kind that didn’t need volume to cut. King’s scowl deepened, the air between them charged, waiting to snap. The rookies tightened their grips, weapons trembling just enough to betray nerves.

And then Jungkook moved.

Not toward the dagger. Not toward a weapon. Not toward escape.

He raised his hands. Smooth. Deliberate. A gesture almost lazy in its confidence, like a man stretching after a long day. His eyes never left King’s.

“Go on then,” Jungkook said, voice dry as ash. “Slap the cuffs on me. Pretend you’ve won. I’ll even make it easy.”

One of the rookies blinked, confused. “He’s surrendering?”

Jungkook chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid. I’m just taking the scenic route.”

King’s jaw tightened, but his grin returned—less smug this time, more brittle. He flicked two fingers. The rookies advanced, rifles trained steady, movements cautious like they expected him to explode any second.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He let them grab his wrists, shove him forward, clamp the cuffs tight. The metal bit cold into his skin. He glanced down at them once, then smirked.

“Upgraded since last time,” he muttered. “You finally figured out the trick with the pins? Took you long enough.”

The younger merc cursed under his breath, wrenching the cuffs harder. Jungkook only raised an eyebrow.

“Careful,” he said softly. “Wouldn’t want me to bruise before your boss gets his reunion dance.”

King stepped closer, leaning in until the scar at his temple caught the firelight. “Still running your mouth. Always thought that’d be the last thing you lost.”

Jungkook tilted his head, meeting his eyes without blinking. “Nah. Last thing I’ll lose is patience. You’ll hear the difference when it happens.”

King’s grin didn’t falter this time. It widened. He jerked his head toward the smoke.

“Bring him.”

The mercs shoved Jungkook forward. He went without resistance, boots crunching across glass and ash. No fight. No sudden strike. Just a man moving steady, head high, every step a reminder that surrender wasn’t the same as defeat.

Through the smoke, the dropship loomed—a sarcophagus with its maw yawning open, repulsors whining, ash curling around its frame like it was already a tomb. The ramp hissed down, metal still glowing faint from its last pass.

They forced him up. He didn’t drag his feet. Didn’t stumble. He walked like he’d bought the ticket himself.

At the top of the ramp, he glanced back once at the city below—still burning, still falling. His mouth curved faintly, dry as stone.

“Hell of a chauffeur service,” he said. “You boys always pick up strays, or am I just special?”

No one answered. The rookies looked away. King only laughed, low and dark, as the ramp hissed shut behind them.

The ship lifted, engines roaring. Jungkook sat chained to the hull, eyes narrowed, smile still carved across his face like a scar that refused to heal.

“Enjoy it while you can,” he muttered. “You’ll miss this view when I’m driving.”

In the cockpit, the mercs were still buzzing. Adrenaline ran quick and hot, filling the cramped space with nervous energy.

“In and out,” one of them said, smacking the overhead panel like it owed him thanks. “Clean as hell. Tell me that wasn’t art.”

His partner barked a laugh, already pulling the band from his wrist to start scribbling figures in the air. “God, I love smash-and-grabs. Nobody even sees us coming. Pay hits before the heat even knows who did the job.”

They grinned at each other, too green to know better, too young to hear the weight in silence.

Then the co-pilot cut in, voice sharp, teeth clenched. “Hold up. I’ve got interference. Rear array’s fuzzed—thermal smear, maybe hull wash. Something’s sniffing us.”

The pilot’s hands went stiff on the yoke. His eyes flicked over the screens, then narrowed. “Shit. They’re tracking us. Close.”

The laughter cut off. Just like that.

The cockpit door whispered open. King stepped inside, movements deliberate, casual as if nothing could touch him. He leaned over the co-pilot’s shoulder, eyes sweeping the radar. Calm. Flat.

“Drop one,” he said.

The pilot hesitated, cursed under his breath, and yanked a lever. Metal groaned. With a loud clunk, one of the ship’s engines detached, unfolding mid-air into a decoy bird. Its belly bled heat, static, fake signatures, drawing every eye in the dark.

The real ship banked hard, cut to cold drive. Power dropped low. For ten seconds, no one in the cockpit breathed.

The scanner blinked once. Twice. Then zeroed out. Clean.

Nobody celebrated. No backslaps. No jokes. Just tension hanging in the air like smoke that didn’t know where to settle. King turned without a word, slipping back into the ship’s hold, leaving his crew rattled in his wake.

Jungkook was there, strapped into the containment rig—cuffed, quiet, head tipped back against cold steel. His eyes were already waiting on King when he walked in.

“So,” King said, voice low, almost conversational. “Where do I dump your ass? Butcher Bay?”

Jungkook tilted his head, lips curling faintly. “Ten minutes outside every other day. Decent protein waffles.”

One of the rookies snorted before biting it back. King didn’t laugh. His grin twitched, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Or Ursa Luna,” he said, tone flat. “Double-max. Real cozy.”

“They keep a cell open for me,” Jungkook shot back without missing a beat.

That grin faltered, just for a breath. King shoved it back in place like armor. “Used to be, places like that scared men. Now it’s yoga and processed protein. We’re soft. Time for something worse.”

The co-pilot muttered from the corner, unease bleeding through his voice. “What’s he talking about?”

Jungkook answered before King could. His tone was dry, cutting. “Triple-max. Only three left. Two out of range for this crate. Leaves one.”

King stiffened. Didn’t like being read. His jaw ticked. “Dope it out.”

The pilot muttered, low and miserable: “I hate that run…”

“Do it,” King snapped.

The cockpit fell silent again, tension snapping taut. The ship’s engines shifted pitch, the course locked.

Jungkook leaned back against the rig, smile faint, voice lazy as smoke. “Not sure about this crew, King. Real skittish. You tell ’em what happened to the last one?”

The words landed like a blade sliding into quiet. No one spoke. No one laughed. The rookies looked anywhere but at him.

King spun on his heel, stalking forward, his grin hard now, stripped of amusement. “You were supposed to be slick,” he growled. “Now you’re just flappin’ like a drunk at last call.”

His finger jabbed—not at Jungkook, but at one of the mercs leaning against the bulkhead. Finch.

“Cool him off.”

Finch blinked, uncertain. “You serious?”

“Change his goddamn oil.”

That ended it. Finch shrugged like it was nothing, keyed in the code, and twisted the valve.

A hiss filled the chamber. Frost crawled quick across the cryo lines, seeping into Jungkook’s veins like liquid glass. His skin paled in seconds, every breath heavier, slower. The cold chewed through him with surgical precision.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t wince. Didn’t give them a thing.

Finch leaned close anyway, trying for bravado, his grin stretched too thin. “So…” he drawled. “What really happened to the others?”

Jungkook stared at him. Unblinking. Silent. His eyes didn’t shift, but the weight of them pressed until Finch’s grin wavered.

The merc forced a laugh, tapping Jungkook’s cheek like a man daring himself to touch fire. “Yeah. Thought so. Nighty-night.”

Still no answer. Just silence, and those eyes staying open long enough to make Finch pull back, unsettled in a way he wouldn’t admit.

Then the cold dragged Jungkook under.

The ship climbed, engines burning hot against the dark. The last thin layer of atmosphere peeled away, replaced with endless black. Stars stretched long and silver through the port windows, sharp against the void.

The nav locked. The course was set.

Destination: Crematoria .