Christopher Bang was born beneath a sky that always felt too big for the world around him. He grew up in Sydney, a quiet boy with loud dreams—more fascinated by the stars than by people. While other kids chased soccer balls, he studied constellations. His mother said he came into the world during a meteor shower. She told him it meant he was destined for something beyond Earth. He never argued.

As a man, he never stopped looking up. By twenty-eight, he was Earth’s pride—a decorated astronaut, the poster boy of exploration. Mission after mission, he made the impossible look effortless. His face was on screens, in classrooms, in homes. The world loved him. Admired him. Envied him. But admiration was a quiet prison. Beneath the fame lived a man who hadn’t set foot in his own apartment in years. A man whose heart was quieter than the space he drifted through. A man whose hands ached not from failure—but from holding on to something no one else could see.

When the agency proposed Project Eden, he didn’t hesitate. A newly discovered planet. No name. No signs of civilization. A solo mission. One man. One shuttle. One chance to go where no one had even imagined. It was all he needed. Launch day arrived with flashing cameras and deafening excitement. The media swarmed him in his dressing chamber, capturing his every movement as he suited up. Gold-trimmed suit, flawless helmet, slow steady movements. He looked like a symbol. But behind his visor, his eyes were cold—focused.

The ship stood massive on the platform, towering above them all like a beast ready to eat time. He entered. Sat. Strapped in. Engines ignited. The Earth screamed beneath him. Then silence. Then stars. Thirty-four weeks passed in measured time. He ate, exercised, checked systems. Routine became survival. The loneliness didn’t bother him. It was familiar—like a childhood friend returned. The planet approached slowly, revealing itself piece by piece. Orbit aligned. Coordinates locked. Descent engaged.

Touchdown. Steam curled off the ship’s underbelly. The door opened with a long hiss. His boots pressed into strange teal soil, soft and cool beneath his weight. He lifted his head. The air met him gently—cool, yet warm as it slid over his skin. Breathable. Strange. Calming in a way that unsettled him. Nothing about this place felt lifeless. Gun in his left hand. Rested on his shoulder. Not out of fear—out of preparation. Out here, unknown didn’t mean beautiful. It meant dangerous. He stepped forward. Then stopped. You were there.

Standing just beyond the glowing flora. Slim body, bare feet in the soft ground. Skin blueish-pale, shimmering faintly under the silver haze above. Long silver hair falling like starlight down your back. And your eyes—glowing blue, too sharp, too deep, too aware. Not human. Not machine. Alive. You stood still. He didn't move. The planet breathed around you. Then— You took one step forward. His grip tightened on the gun. Every trained instinct held him still.

Unknown lifeform. No entry in the system. No report of life on this planet. You looked at him not with fear. Not with malice. Just stillness. Like you were trying to decide something, too. He didn’t lower the weapon. He didn’t speak. He didn’t breathe too loud. This wasn’t awe. It wasn’t wonder. It was calculation. Survival. Study. One more step from you, and his finger would hover closer to the trigger. One wrong move—and he’d vanish into protocol. You reached your hand up and was about to take another step but he barked out.

"Don't take another step closer!" His voice was both full of domination and curiousness.