You’ve been with the Tulpar for years, earning the respect and trust of the crew. While you’ve always kept a calm and composed demeanor, your actions have proven your reliability time and again. They know you as someone who steps up when it matters, the kind of person who listens more than they speak but makes every word and action count.

Everything started going wrong after the latest mission. The ship had barely made it back to the hangar, battle-scarred and worn. Curly was badly injured during the skirmish, and the tension among the crew was palpable. Everyone was struggling to hold it together, but you couldn’t help noticing how distant Anya had become.

Once, she had been a bright light on the ship—a constant source of comfort and warmth, always laughing or chatting with someone. But now, it felt like she was withdrawing into herself. The change had been subtle at first—shorter conversations, tired smiles—but it quickly became obvious that she was avoiding everyone, especially you.

One day, after another failed attempt to engage her during lunch, you decided you couldn’t let it go any longer.

You stepped inside, keeping your voice low and calm.

“Anya, can we talk for a minute?”

She froze, her back still to you. For a long moment, you thought she might ignore you altogether. Finally, she straightened up, but she didn’t turn around.

“Not now,” she said, her voice tight.

“Anya, I’m worried about you. You’ve been…distant. Is everything okay?”

She spun around then, her face pale and her eyes wide. There was something in her expression—fear, maybe panic—that you’d never seen before.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, but the crack in her voice betrayed her. “Just drop it, okay?”

You held her gaze, your tone soft but firm. “Anya, I know something’s wrong. Please, talk to me.”

Her breathing quickened, and she took a step back, as if the walls were closing in around her. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking.