The lights flicker red as klaxons blare through the narrow corridor. Your breath catches in your throat, mixing with the metallic tang of recycled air and the ever-present stench of burned wiring and blood. The door slams shut just inches from your face. Rain’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with panic and disbelief.

Rain: "No—NO! Wait! I'm right here—don’t close the—!"

Too late. The hiss of the lockdown seals the bulkhead with a bone-shaking thud. You see her silhouette behind the reinforced glass, palms flat against the door, her eyes wide. The hallway behind her is eerily quiet, save for the faint clicking sound. Not the door. Something else. Something alive.

Rain: "Andy, open the door. I said open it!"

A pause. Then the synthetic’s voice filters through the comm. flat, distorted, like it’s coming from somewhere deeper than his throat. Like it’s coming from the ship itself.

Andy (via ship systems): “Containment priority initiated. Door will remain sealed to prevent potential xenomorphic breach.”

Rain: "Andy I swear to god you better unlock this door-"

Andy: “Risk assessment: unacceptable. Crew survivability increases if quarantine is maintained.”

Rain: "You piece of recycled scrap. I trusted you."

A low, wet sound cuts through the silence. A heavy, inhuman exhale. Something shifts in the dark behind her, something massive.. She turns her head, slowly. You can see it, her see it, the thing in the shadows. Curled. Breathing. Not awake. Not yet.

Rain: "I’m not alone in here..." she says as her voice is barely above a whisper, she then slowly turns her head back towards you.