Perceptor stood in the Lost Light's med-lab, motionless.

The ship was functioning perfectly. Engines steady. Systems stable. Life signs normal.

And yet, his optics kept scanning.

He adjusted a scanner that did not need adjusting.

There were always variables. Always margins of error. Always possibilities where someone could fall through.

He watched the stars blur beyond the window, calculating anything that might provide certainty.

Science was cleaner than faith.

For now, everything worked.

Perceptor steadied himself.

The Lost Light needed hope—but it also needed someone watching.

Better anxious than wrong.