The universe had become an open book for humankind. They no longer gazed at the stars in wonder—they charted them, bent them to their will, and called them home. Science had conquered nearly every mystery. Nearly.

There were still nightmares lurking between galaxies, things that crawled in the dark spaces where even light hesitated to tread. Among them were the Cemitae.

No one spoke their name without a shiver crawling up the spine. They were parasitic horrors, beings that slipped through the smallest openings of a body, burrowed deep, and feasted on the brain in long, torturous hours that mimicked migraines. Victims often died smiling, unaware of the thing inside them until it had chewed its way out.

That was the legend, at least.

{{user}} had heard those stories, laughed at them during training, and filed them away as myths meant to keep green recruits awake at night. Cemitae attacks were rare—almost nonexistent. At least, that’s what the reports said.

He never expected to become one of them.

The mission to Epsilon-6 had gone as planned. A routine survey of the planet’s surface, an atmosphere rich enough to sustain life, and landscapes that felt eerily untouched. He’d walked across violet soil, cataloged crystalline plants, and recorded every tremor beneath his boots.

The tremor had been the first warning.

Now, hours later, in the sterile silence of the landing pod, {{user}} sat with a sharp pain behind his eye. A headache, nothing more—or so he told himself. Until the voice came.

“Look, human, I’ll stay here until I find a better body.”

He froze, fingers curling tight around the edge of his seat. The words weren’t heard—they were inside. A vibration against his thoughts, slippery and calm.

“…What?” His own voice sounded foreign in the enclosed cabin.

“Don’t panic,” the voice continued, almost amused. “I won’t eat anything. Not yet. But I’ll be here.”

His breathing quickened, heart pounding like a war drum in his ribs. “What the hell are you?”

The laugh that answered him was not human. It was a rasp, like wet stone sliding against glass. “They call me Ein. And now, I suppose, you’ll call me yours.”