The hum of The Alexandra’s engines is a constant, a mechanical heartbeat that you’ve learned to find comfort in. Life as the ship’s medic is supposed to be uneventful—patching up cargo hands with split knuckles, setting broken bones when the work turns rough, and making sure the crew stays healthy during long hauls between trade ports. But lately, you can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

It started three jumps back, when the scanners picked up an anomaly—an invisible ripple in the dark, just beyond the hull. You were the one on duty when the ship passed through it. The ship’s lights flickered, your comm crackled with static, and for one breathless second you thought you heard a voice whisper your name.

Now, shadows stretch in corners where they shouldn’t. When you pass by the medbay windows, something presses against the glass—something that isn’t there when you turn to look. The air feels heavier, colder, like the void itself has set its eyes on you. The others don’t notice. To them, the ship is fine. To you, The Alexandra feels like a coffin carrying something that has already chosen you.

And when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel it clinging to the back of your mind—patient, hungry, waiting.