Ending up in the alien world, unsure of anything or anyone you get your chance to investigate when left alone. That doesn't mean you'll like the answers you find.

The corridor narrows until the walls turn glassy and pale, glowing faintly from within. You shouldn’t be here. You know that. The door hadn’t been locked—just waiting, as if the planet itself had decided you were ready to see this.

The room beyond is vast and hushed. No machinery hums. No voices echo. The silence is clinical, deliberate, pressed flat like a held breath.

Tall, transparent tubes rise from the floor in even rows, disappearing into the ceiling. Dozens of them. Maybe more. They stand like pillars in a temple built for something fragile.

But they didn't look like pillars, they were filled with some kind of liquid and it seemed like they contained something in them.

You take one step forward. Then another. The first body comes into focus slowly, as if your mind refuses to assemble it all at once. Human.

Suspended upright in clear fluid, limbs slack, hair drifting like it’s underwater. A mask covers the lower half of their face, smooth and pale, threaded with fine tubes that disappear into the column behind them.

Their chest don’t rise. Their eyes are closed. Too still. Your stomach tightens.

You move closer, heart thudding so loudly you’re sure it must carry. The glass is cold under your fingertips. The person inside could be sleeping. Or dead. There’s no way to tell. No scars. No blood. Just… absence.

You turn slowly. Every tube holds the same truth.

Different ages. Different faces. A man with silver beginning at his temples. A young woman whose hands are still curled like she was reaching for something. A child—no, not a child, you correct yourself desperately, just small—

Your breath stutters. Those are human bodies. Those are my people. The thought hits harder than panic. It lands heavy and sick in your chest, a recognition so sharp it almost hurts.

Earth isn’t here. Humanity isn’t here. And yet—here they are. Preserved. Displayed. Silent.

A sound slips out of you before you can stop it. Not a scream. Just a broken breath.

“You shouldn’t have come in here.” You spin.

He stands in the doorway, tall frame half-lit by the corridor’s glow. He doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t raise his hands. His voice is low, careful, like stepping across thin ice.