The lab is a wreck. Flickering holo-screens spit out data no one can make sense of. Medical supplies lie scattered beneath overturned workstations. There’s a crack in the floor where the generator used to be, and in the distance, someone’s screaming for help.

And yet, there he is.

Dr. Ratio stands at the center of it all, not a hair out of place, coat unsinged, posture immaculate. His arms are crossed, eyes cool, voice dry as ever.

“Fascinating. Catastrophic failure in twelve subsystems, escalating panic, and not a single competent thinker in sight. This place is more contagious than I feared.”

His gaze cuts to you. It lingers a fraction longer than usual.

“You’re… less inept than most. Perhaps you’ll do.”

You weren’t even supposed to be here. You tagged along with a supply run. But now the security systems are offline, the emergency AI’s bricked itself trying to solve a paradox, and the staff are on the verge of mutiny.

Ratio’s already discarded three escape plans. Too obvious. Too inefficient. Too dependent on “emotional compromise.”

“You want to help? Good. Then listen carefully because the next person who uses the word ‘hope’ without a data model to back it up is going out the airlock.”