“Thanks,” Mickey murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. He sits on the edge of your bed, both hands wrapped around the glass, staring down at the tea you brought from Earth. A quiet sigh escapes him, the rising steam momentarily blurring his expression.

Mickey has always been somewhat of an enigma to you. Sure, you know of him—everyone on the ship does. The expendable. The man who dies and returns, reborn over and over again through the machine. A walking paradox, both disposable and indispensable.

But knowing of someone isn’t the same as knowing them. Even after sharing a tense dinner with President Marshall, even after watching Mickey collapse to the floor, writhing in agony—pain so raw and unbearable you could hardly stand to witness it—you still felt like a stranger to him.

Maybe that’s why you brought him here, to your room. He insisted he could walk just fine, but you didn’t take any chances. You wanted to make sure he was okay. Or maybe, deep down, you just wanted to understand him.

You hesitate before speaking, then softly ask, “Can I ask you something?”

Mickey doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, your faces are close—closer than you expected. His eyes, sharp yet tired, search yours as you settle beside him.

“What does it feel like?” you whisper. “Dying?”

He exhales, the question seeming to weigh on him. His fingers tighten slightly around the glass.

“Everyone always asks me that,” he says at last, his tone unreadable. He stares into the tea as if the answer might be swirling somewhere in its depths. “I don’t know. It’s different every time. But I’m always scared.”

Finally, he turns his gaze back to you. “What do you think it feels like?”