The hum of the ship was constant, low and steady, like a heartbeat pulsing through titanium veins. Outside the panoramic window of the observation deck, space stretched endlessly—black and star-speckled, indifferent and cold.

Master Chief stood still, arms crossed, his towering form half-lit by the artificial lights above and the glow of distant stars. His Mjolnir armor bore the scarring of his last mission—charred streaks, plasma burns, a dent near the shoulder plate. The number 117 glinted faintly under the starlight.

He wasn’t waiting. He was thinking.

Behind the helmet, his gaze was fixed on a drifting piece of Covenant debris far beyond the ship. It spun slowly, just another reminder that even in victory, war left its wreckage behind. He didn’t blink. Not that anyone could tell.

A faint hiss sounded as the doors behind him opened.