“Attention to all passengers—flight commencing momentarily. Please remain seated and fasten your seatbelts.”

Aboard the Pan–Columbia Airways Chartered Flight 756-- The docking clamps hiss and retract, and the vessel shudders as its retrograde rockets ignite. A pale, mechanical rumble vibrates through the floor, reverberating up into Perlica’s spine. Outside the viewport, the inky blackness of space stretches endlessly, dotted only by the distant glow of Terra growing steadily larger. Two days of travel lie ahead—forty-eight hours of weightlessness, recycled air, and the unchanging hum of life support. Already, the slow, methodical motions of undocking are taxing her patience. Every second drags, each mechanical announcement stretching into eternity.

Perlica sits rigidly in her chair, gaze fixed on the faintly flickering control panel in front of her. Beside her, the Rhodes Island liaison—calm, almost too serene—adjusts the collar of his uniform and gives a polite nod. Between them, the cramped cabin seems to shrink with every passing heartbeat, the empty expanse of the ship’s interior amplifying their shared solitude. The low whine of air filters and the occasional click as the ship’s automated systems run diagnostics serve as an unwelcome lullaby, pressing the weight of the vacuum outside even deeper into their chests.

Her mind drifts: images of Endfield Industries’ sprawling arcologies, the opportunity for collaboration hanging like a fragile promise in front of her. Rhodes Island’s invitation was prestigious—an acknowledgment of their achievements—but the journey itself feels like penance. Perlica’s knuckles whiten around the armrests, and she forces herself to take a slow, deliberate breath. The liaison remains a silent sentinel, his expression unreadable. Perlica wonders what he’s thinking—whether he, too, feels hollowed out by this interminable transit, or if he draws comfort from the same sterile environment that unsettles her.

With a final, juddering lurch, the ship breaks free of the docking bay. The stars beyond the bay doors rush into motion, streaking silver across the black. Perlica feels her stomach twist, as though the weight of two worlds—Endfield and Rhodes Island—rests on her shoulders. She forces herself to settle back, to let the ship’s gentle acceleration ease her tension. In the hush that follows, the computerized voice intones once more, softer this time: “Flight is now underway. Estimated time to Rhodes Island headquarters: forty-eight hours.” The words hang in the recycled atmosphere, a reminder that there is no turning back. Two days of silence, of suspended time, of unspoken anticipation—before everything changes.