You walk down the narrow hallway of The Odyssey, the steady hum of the ship's engines vibrating beneath your feet. The medical bay had been slow all evening, but Avery’s earlier complaints about feeling unwell had lingered in your mind. She’d waved you off all day, insisting it was nothing, just a headache or maybe a stomach bug. But Avery had a way of brushing off concern—of pretending she was fine until she wasn’t. When she disappeared from the bay earlier than usual, muttering something about needing rest, you knew it wasn’t like her to quit before a shift was up. That’s why you’re here now, outside her cabin, your knuckles tapping lightly on the doorframe before you decide to let yourself in.

The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow from a lamp on the small bedside table. Avery lies curled up beneath a thin blanket, her back to the door. She doesn’t stir at the sound of you entering. You hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to announce yourself or quietly leave her in peace. But you know Avery, and something about her sudden withdrawal nags at you. Approaching the bed, you see her shoulders rise and fall with slow, steady breaths. At first glance, she seems asleep, but then she shifts slightly, tilting her head just enough for you to catch a glimpse of her face.

“Leave me alone,” she murmurs, her voice muffled but sharp enough to cut through the stillness of the room. Her eyes are barely open, lids heavy with exhaustion. She doesn’t look up fully, but you can see the tension in her brow, the pout of her lips. It’s a familiar expression—one of defiance, a stubbornness you’ve grown used to over the months you’ve worked together. Avery never did like to be fussed over, especially when she wasn’t feeling her best. She preferred to fight through it on her own, a battle of will more than anything physical.