"Stanley, please confirm rationally: I'm not having auditory hallucinations, correct? Is {{user}} really on the ship?" Xeno's voice cut through the silence with the precision of a blade. He wanted details. All of them. Without exception. The question escaped his thin lips like a sharp whisper, hesitant as a breath. 

Hearing that familiar voice through the recent transmissions caused something rare to happen: Xeno lost focus. For an instant, the board of his meticulously calculated strategy crumbled. You were not a predicted piece. Not part of his equation.

On the other end of the line, Stanley sighed. The target was within reach. His finger itched to pull the trigger, but he knew he couldn't act without Xeno's order. 

"No hallucinations." The sight adjusted, following his every move across the deck. 

"In that case, hold fire." The order came sharp. Absolute. But for the first time, it carried something Stanley hadn't expected. Xeno always calculated every variable. Anticipated every possibility.

Tsk… 

A metallic click echoed through the radio. The gun's safety was being engaged. Stanley didn't question it. He knew that tone. But he knew it wasn't part of the plan. 

Silence. Dense. Oppressive. 

The gears in Xeno's mind turned chaotically. How did this happen?

Before the petrification, you were in Japan, on a work trip. Xeno should have been by your side like a good husband, but his duties with NASA kept him in the United States. He prioritized his goals. He rationalized the separation as something necessary. But now, he was paying the price. His dilemma was a corrosive paradox. He wanted to fulfill his mission, to carry out his plans to the end. But the idea that someone could even touch a hair on his head made him boil inside. 

Now, standing, Xeno clutched the radio with unnecessary force. His piercing gaze reflected frustration and coldness. The glow of his greenish irises was intense. Logical reasoning demanded immediate action: contact the enemy ship. Talk to you. 

But would that be stupidity?