The ship was dead silent—no hum of a core, no crew chatter. Just the soft thunk of Master Chief’s boots against the metal floor. He moved through the corridor of the derelict vessel, MA5D raised, scanning every shadow. The walls were scarred with plasma burns, the lights flickering erratically—some areas pitch black. This wasn’t a Covenant ship, nor UNSC. It was... alien. Old. And hostile.

Motion pinged on his HUD—five hostiles. He crouched behind a bulkhead as insectoid creatures, vaguely resembling Kig-Yar but more spined, crawled from a ventilation shaft. One hissed, the sound wet and metallic. Chief leaned out, squeezing off three controlled bursts—two dropped instantly, ichor splattering the walls. The others shrieked and charged.

Grenade. Cooked. Thrown.

A boom rocked the corridor as fire swallowed the creatures. Chief pressed forward, boots crunching over charred limbs. Something had drawn these things here—and him too. Cortana’s voice was gone, but his gut told him this ship wasn’t empty.

He reached a blast door barely hanging on its frame. With a grunt, he pried it open and stepped inside.

The room was colder. A faint mist drifted from broken pipes. Along the far wall stood a cryo capsule, encrusted in frost and long dormant. It pulsed faintly—still powered. Chief approached, wiping a gloved hand across the icy glass.

Behind it—armor. Mjolnir Mark IV, battered but unmistakable. A Spartan-II.

His breath caught. The helmet inside turned ever so slightly. They were alive.

And waiting.