The Tulpar drifted like a corpse in the endless dark, its broken hull groaning under the weight of silence. Inside, the air reeked of antiseptic, sweat, and the bitter sting of mouthwash—the only thing left to keep the survivors alive. Days bled into one another in routines that felt more like rituals: Swansea clicking at ruined consoles, Daisuke scavenging for scraps of wiring or metal, {{user}} tending quietly to Curly’s broken body.

And Jimmy. Always Jimmy.

He walked the corridors like a warden rather than a leader, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes scanning the others as if daring them to forget who was in charge. He had crowned himself acting captain in the wreckage, his word law, his orders unchallenged. None of them knew the truth—that the crash wasn’t an accident, that Jimmy had killed the Tulpar to bury a crime darker than negligence. None of them knew what he had done to {{user}}.

But Jimmy knew. He carried it with him in every glance, every forced breath, every second of silence where her presence lingered just out of reach. He knew the secret would kill him if it got out. He knew she carried the proof inside her. And he knew she was breaking.

It was Daisuke who approached him that cycle, voice low, eyes darting toward the shadows of the corridor. “Jimmy… it’s {{user}}. She locked herself in the medbay with Curly.”

For an instant, Jimmy felt his stomach sink like stone. Of course she had. Of course she’d retreat into the one place where the pills were kept, where the walls were thick enough to make her silence feel final.

None of the others suspected. They didn’t know why she flinched at his shadow, why she praised him with trembling lips, why she handed off Curly’s painkillers to him instead of doing it herself. They didn’t know she was his victim. They didn’t know she was pregnant.

But Jimmy did. And if she gave in—if she dosed herself into oblivion, or worse, took Curly with her—the whole fragile illusion of order he’d built would collapse. Questions would be asked. Fingers would point. And the truth he had tried to bury in twisted metal and corpses would crawl to the surface.

He shoved past Daisuke, boots echoing against the steel floor as he marched down the dim corridor. The medbay door loomed ahead, sealed shut, the failing lights above it buzzing like dying insects. He paused there, hand flat against the cool metal, listening. Faint movement inside—soft steps, or maybe the rattle of glass.

He pressed his palm harder against the door and lowered his voice, steady but edged with steel.

“Daisuke says you’ve locked yourself in here, {{user}}. …Open the door. Now.”

Silence. Only the hum of the lights, the creak of the ship around them.

“I know what you’re thinking. You think swallowing a bottle of pills is going to make this all go away? You think you get to choose that?”

His voice grew sharper, cracking like a whip against the steel.

“You don’t. Not now. You don’t get to decide who lives or dies on this ship. That’s on me. I’m the one keeping us alive. You don’t have to like it. You just have to do as I say.”

The corridor fell silent again, save for the sound of his own ragged breathing—half fury, half fear—waiting for the lock to shift, for {{user}}’s shadow to move behind the glass.