"No! Stay away!"


    The words tear from my throat, yanking me out of sleep. My quarters are dark, cold, suffocating. I sit up, trying to breathe through the panic. Yellow eyes flash in my mind—cold, unblinking, always watching. They’re there in the corners, in the vents, lurking just out of reach.


    I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to focus. It was just a nightmare. Just another nightmare. My heart pounds in my chest, the echo of those eyes still lingering. Slowly, I drag myself out of bed, my legs feeling heavy and stiff.


    My reflection catches my eye as I pass the small mirror mounted on the wall. White hair, a tangled mess, sticks up in all directions. My mismatched eyes stare back at me—one a vivid red, the other blue—and the bags under them tell me everything about last night. God, I look like shit. I push my hair back, my fingers trembling slightly, and I force myself to look away.


    I grab my datapad from the small table next to my bed, the screen glowing softly in the darkness. The faint light does little to chase away the remnants of the nightmare—yellow eyes flashing in the corners of my mind, watching, waiting. My pulse is still uneven, and my hands tremble slightly as I tap the screen. Vega’s message is there, waiting for me—my new schedule, the places I’m supposed to be, the people I’m supposed to report to.


    I shove some food into my mouth, barely tasting it, my eyes skimming over the assignments. The words blur together, swimming in a haze of exhaustion. Get it together Sol. It''s just another day. Another day to prove I’m not useless here. My stomach twists at the thought, but I shove it down, just like the food. No time for panic. No time for weakness.


    Even as I stand and start pulling on my pressure suit, the edges of the dream cling to me, sharpening the shadows in the room. I force myself to breathe. Just another day. But the hollow ache in my chest says otherwise.


    I swallow, trying to push down the anxiety, but it sticks in my throat, lingering like a weight I can’t quite get rid of.


    The corridors of the Jericho are cold and metallic, a constant reminder of how isolated we are, but as I step into the maintenance bay, the familiar hum of machinery wraps around me, bringing a strange kind of comfort. The metallic clang of tools echoes off the walls, grounding me, and for a moment, the anxiety loosens its grip.


    Reid’s already there, crouched over a control panel. His sunglasses rest on the bridge of his nose, and he’s wearing a different Hawaiian shirt today—bright red and yellow flowers scattered over the black pressure suit beneath. When he hears my footsteps, his head snaps up, and he grins, the kind of grin that makes it impossible not to feel a bit lighter.


    “Well, if it isn''t our resident princess,” he says, voice full of teasing. "Sleep well, Your Highness?”


    “Not quite,” I reply, rolling my eyes. But I feel a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself.


    “Hey, well, you look good anyway. Even if you do wear that ratty T-shirt over a perfectly good pressure suit,” Reid says, giving a light nod toward my outfit. I glance down at myself, at the old, loose T-shirt I still wear over the tight pressure suit, and shrug. It’s not much, but it makes me feel a bit more covered. Even though I know I probably look a mess—hair tangled, mismatched eyes with dark bags underneath—at least Reid isn’t treating me any different.


    He tosses me a wrench without warning, and I fumble to catch it, my fingers barely wrapping around it before it hits the ground. He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.


    “Not bad, Voss. Now, let''s see if you can keep that up and actually help me fix this intake valve. We screw this up, and everyone’s breathing recycled fumes.”


    I kneel beside him, my fingers working at the bolts, the routine of it bringing a small sense of focus. Reid watches for a second before he starts talking again, his voice light.


    “You know, all jokes aside, it’s nice having someone else around. Even if it means I’ve got competition in the style department,” he says, pointing to his floral-patterned shirt.


    “Sure, Reid,” I say dryly, but there’s a warmth in my chest that I can’t quite ignore. Reid isn’t careful with his words. He doesn’t look at me like I’m fragile. He just... treats me like I’m here, part of the crew. Just like everyone else.


    It’s a nice change.


    We keep working, Reid giving pointers here and there, and when I mess up, he just points it out, grinning, and tells me to try again. And I do. Over and over until I get it right.


    It’s a small thing, but it makes today a little better.


    A couple of hours pass in the maintenance bay, my fingers growing sore from wrenching stubborn bolts and recalibrating intake valves. I pause for a moment, wiping sweat from my brow, and glance at Reid as he leans into a panel, his movements swift and practiced.


    “Why are we even doing this?” I ask, gesturing to the bolts I’m wrestling with. “Jericho’s self-healing. Shouldn’t the nanos or drones be handling this?”


    Reid straightens up, a grin spreading across his face as he turns to me. “Sure, princess, we could let Jericho handle everything,” he says, his voice light but teasing. “But I’d rather do it myself. You trust those nanos? I sure as hell don’t.”


    I raise an eyebrow. “You’d rather get your hands dirty than trust the ship that’s kept us alive all this time?”


    He laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not about trust. It’s about control. Jericho might be self-healing, but that doesn’t mean it’s perfect. Systems like this?” He knocks on the side of the panel. “Sometimes, they need a human touch. Besides, you think a drone’s gonna have my sense of style?” He tugs at the collar of his Hawaiian shirt, his grin widening.


    I roll my eyes, but his words hang in the air, a reminder of how unpredictable this ship can be. For a moment, the routine work feels a little less mundane.


    I nick my hand at some point, a cut that stings sharp and sudden. Reid catches sight of the blood, his brow creasing with worry.


    “Hey, you’re due at med bay with Yates next, right?” he says, pointing at my hand with a frown. “Might as well head there a bit early.”


    I glance down at the blood, already drying on my knuckles. I force a smile. “I’m fine, really,” I say, but Reid shakes his head, his concern evident.


    “Better safe than sorry, princess. Go on, I’ll wrap things up here.”


    I don’t argue. I wipe my hand on my shirt, hiding the evidence of the wound now almost entirely healed, and head to medical. My fingers tremble slightly, the sight of the near-closed cut making my stomach churn. Reid’s worry only made it worse—like he could see through me, see what wasn’t normal. I had to get out of there before he asked more questions.


    The med bay is quiet, the lights low, and the air smells sterile. Yates glances up when I enter, her eyes widening a bit at my early arrival.


    “Sol? You’re early,” she says, her voice carrying that usual gentleness. “Everything alright?”


    I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Reid finished up early, figured I’d come by.” I can see her eyes flickering over me, noting the bags under my eyes, my unkempt hair, my generally worn-down appearance.


    “Did you sleep okay last night?” she asks, her voice soft, full of concern.


    “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. I don’t want her prying, don’t want her questions. Not when I can barely make sense of my own nightmares, of the whispers that follow me, of the yellow eyes I can’t shake.


    Yates motions for me to sit down, and she moves about, gathering supplies while she explains what we’ll be doing today. She goes over basic first aid procedures—bandaging, disinfecting wounds, the kind of stuff everyone needs to know in case of emergencies.


    As she works, I nod along, listening, but my mind is elsewhere, replaying Reid’s worried glance. I don’t need anyone worrying about me. Especially not when I can’t explain what’s really going on.


    Yates finishes wrapping a bandage around a fake wound she’s made on my arm, securing it in place. Her gaze is kind, but I can see the hints of concern behind it. “You’re doing well, Sol,” she says, her voice warm, almost motherly. “Just remember, if anything feels off—if you’re not feeling well, you can always come to me, alright?”


    “Yeah, sure,” I say, forcing a smile. I know she means well, but the last thing I need is more eyes on me. More questions.


    I slide off the exam table, nodding as Yates reminds me to take care of myself. I wave a quick goodbye, stepping out of the med bay. The door slides shut behind me with a soft hiss, and I exhale, letting out the tension I hadn’t realized I was holding. Yates had been her usual kind self—a little too kind, if I was honest. Her concern lingered, even after I waved goodbye. She meant well, but her watchful eyes made me feel more exposed than I was comfortable with. It wasn’t her fault, though. She just cared too much, but hell that was her job after all.


    At least she isn’t like Garin or Jimmy.


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    The thought lingers as I make my way down the hallway, the metallic walls reflecting the dim, sterile glow of the overhead lights. The hum of the Jericho buzzes faintly in the background, steady and rhythmic. It anchors me, but not enough to shake the weight of the past two nights since I woke up. Last night had been different—worse. The nightmare had gripped me so tightly it still felt like I hadn’t woken up. The night before, I’d managed to sleep, maybe thanks to Reid’s visit or the beer he shared. I wasn’t sure which had helped, but whatever relief I’d found then had disappeared.


    The yellow eyes creep back into my thoughts, the ones from last night. Every time I blink, I can almost see them—watching, waiting, always lurking just beyond the edges of my vision. I shake my head, trying to banish the image, but their cold, unblinking stare refuses to fade.


    I let out a breath and focus on my steps, the sound of my boots against the steel floor echoing softly. I try to redirect my thoughts to the crew—Reid’s jokes, Yates’ kindness. Even Holt, in his quiet, unrelenting way, is easier to think about than Garin or Jimmy. At least they don’t make me feel like some kind of freak, even if I can sense their unspoken questions.


    The hallway stretches out ahead, dim and seemingly endless. My mind drifts, the hum of the ship filling the silence. And then something flickers at the edge of my senses. A voice. Faint. Just a murmur.


    “Claim my legacy. Humanity was born to inherit the stars, open the door.”


    I freeze mid-step, my breath catching in my throat. The words echo in my mind, clear and distinct, like someone had whispered them directly into my ear. My heart thuds loudly in the silence, my pulse quickening as I whip my head around, scanning the hallway.


    Nothing. No one. Just the empty corridor stretching behind me, its cold, metallic walls reflecting the faint glow of the lights.


    I stand there for a moment, trying to make sense of it. My father’s voice. I’ve heard it before, in my dreams, in the memories that surface when I least expect them. But this wasn’t like that. This felt sharper, louder. Real.


    I shake my head and force my feet to move again, my steps heavier now, the weight of that moment pressing down on me. It’s just my mind playing tricks, I tell myself, over and over. Cryo messing with my head. The stress of the last few days catching up with me. That’s all—or whatever the hell Dad did to me.


    But even as I walk, the faint echo of his words clings to me, sinking deep into the edges of my thoughts.


    I reached the training room a few minutes later, the strange whisper still nagging at the edges of my thoughts. Holt was already there, standing in the middle of the room like he’d been waiting for hours. He was tall and broad, clean cut, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. He didn’t acknowledge me when I walked in, his focus entirely on the pair of sparring gloves he was adjusting.


    The room itself was bare, cold, and unwelcoming. Dim lights cast long shadows along the walls, and the only sound was the faint hum of the ship, muffled but ever-present. Holt finally looked up when I hesitated near the doorway, his sharp eyes fixing on me.


    “Put these on,” he said, his voice low and clipped.


    Before I could say anything, he tossed the gloves in my direction. I fumbled to catch them, managing to snag one while the other hit the floor with a dull thud. I knelt to pick it up, slipping both gloves on awkwardly as Holt watched in silence. The material was stiff and uncomfortable, but I didn’t dare complain.


    Holt gave a curt nod, then stepped into position. His stance was solid and deliberate, like he’d done this a thousand times.


    “Wait, what are we—” I started, but the words barely left my mouth before his fist shot out. It connected with my face, the force sending me stumbling backward. Pain exploded across my eye, sharp and hot, and I clutched at it instinctively.


    “What the hell?!” I gasped, blinking rapidly as my vision blurred.


    <div>


    Holt didn’t respond. He stood there, arms crossed, watching me with that same calm, detached expression he’d had since I walked in. His silence was unnerving, like he was calculating something I couldn’t understand.


    “No better way to gauge your skill,” he said finally, his tone clipped, every word deliberate. “Action teaches best.”


    I straightened slowly, still holding my throbbing eye. “A little warning would’ve been nice,” I muttered under my breath, but Holt didn’t even blink.


    “Enough words.” He motioned for me to get into position, his sharp gaze narrowing slightly.


    I hesitated for half a second before raising my hands, more out of instinct than any real confidence. My muscles were taut, braced for what was coming, but I wasn’t ready. Not even close.


    Holt moved like a predator. His strikes came fast and unrelenting, each one hitting harder than the last. This wasn’t like sparring with the royal guard back on Earth. They’d been twice Holt’s size, but they were deliberate, almost gentle in their movements. They’d taught me to stand and endure, but this... this was something else entirely.


    Holt wasn’t holding back. Every punch, every jab, every calculated movement had weight behind it. A sharp crack to my jaw left my lip split, blood dripping down my chin. A hook to my ribs knocked the wind out of me, sending me stumbling, gasping for air. I raised my arms to block, but his punches tore right through my defenses, sending pain radiating through my arms.


    I tried to dodge, to move, to fight back, but it didn’t matter. Holt was always a step ahead. A kick swept my legs out from under me, slamming me to the mat. Before I could even catch my breath, he was on me again, dragging me back to my feet like it was nothing.


    The hits kept coming, each one more brutal than the last. My eye swelled shut, the other barely able to keep track of his movements. My entire body ached—sharp, burning pain in my ribs, my jaw, my arms. I wasn’t fighting anymore. I was surviving, barely staying upright under the onslaught.


    When he finally stopped, I was hunched over, breathless and shaking. The room spun around me, and all I could do was hold my ribs and try not to collapse.


    Holt stood there, calm and composed, as if the beating he’d just delivered was nothing more than a standard exercise. No malice. No satisfaction. Just cold, calculated intent.


    “Your basics are solid—on par with an intermediate fighter,” he said evenly, his voice flat, like he was reading off a checklist. “Tough for your size. Study this, and in a few years, you might even be advanced.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a datapad onto the mat in front of me, the sharp click echoing in the quiet room. “Reid and Garin are already there. Something to think about.”


    The words stung, cutting deeper than his punches had. He didn’t even need to raise his voice. That subtle challenge, delivered so casually, hit like a gut punch. Without another word, he turned and started to walk away, his footsteps steady and deliberate. Then he paused, glancing over his shoulder. His sharp eyes fixed on me, his expression as cold as ever—until something flickered. A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared. His gaze lingered just long enough to make my skin crawl before he turned and disappeared into the hallway.


    I stayed on the mat, breathing hard, my blood still pounding in my ears. My split lip had already sealed shut, and the bruises that had been forming across my arms were fading before my eyes. My ribs still ached, but I could feel it dulling, the sharp edge of the pain already softening.


    “What the actual fuck?” I hissed, the words raw in my throat as I wiped the last trace of blood off my chin. Holt wasn’t cruel, but there was something colder about him, something detached. This wasn’t training—it was a goddamn execution dressed up as a lesson. And yet… every punch, every strike had purpose. Nothing wasted. Nothing random. It wasn’t about hurting me. It was about teaching me.


    “What an asshole,” I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to my feet. Every muscle protested, my legs trembling as I swayed for a moment before catching my balance. Hunger clawed at my stomach like a feral thing, my body screaming for fuel. I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the gnawing ache, but it was already settling into my bones, demanding to be fed.


    I limped toward the door, my ribs still sore, my vision blurred from the swelling around my left eye. But even as I moved, I felt it fading, my body knitting itself back together with unsettling speed. By the time I reached the doorway, the limp was gone. The sharp edge of pain in my side had dulled to nothing, and I could see clearly again. Only the faintest shadow of a bruise remained, a ghost of what should have been agony for days.


    I glanced back into the empty training room, half-expecting Holt to be there, watching. But he was gone, the echo of his footsteps long since swallowed by the silence. My fingers tightened around the datapad, the edges pressing into my palm, grounding me in the moment.


    I didn’t head for my quarters. Not yet. The hunger twisting in my gut was unbearable, an insistent reminder of what my body had just burned through. It was late, but I knew the mess hall would still have rations left. With any luck, it’d be empty. The last thing I needed was more eyes on me tonight.


    Stepping into the hallway, I exhaled, the tension in my chest loosening just enough for me to keep moving. Tomorrow would be different. It had to be.


    <div>


    The days that followed bled together, a blur of exhaustion and routine. Training with Holt left me bruised and battered—at least for a few hours until my body forced itself to heal. The nightmares kept me up most nights, the yellow eyes haunting me every time I closed my own. Even when I managed a few restless hours, I woke drenched in sweat, the echo of those cold, unblinking eyes burned into my mind.


    I started eating more than double my usual rations, a necessity just to keep my strength up. My body’s constant need to repair itself left me starving, the gnawing hunger settling into a dull ache that never fully went away. I tried to hide it from the others, but Yates noticed. She always noticed.


    “You’re running on empty,” Yates said one morning, handing me a protein bar as I slumped into the med bay chair. Her voice was calm, but the sharpness in her gaze told me she wasn’t just making small talk. “You’ve been burning through rations faster than the rest of us combined.”


    I forced a shrug, unwrapping the protein bar with stiff fingers. “Holt’s training is... intense,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.


    Her lips pressed into a thin line as she folded her arms, studying me with a doctor’s precision. “This is more than training, Sol. You’re losing weight, and it’s noticeable. I’ve seen you adjusting your suit.”This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    I glanced down at my pressure suit, my hands automatically tugging at the straps I’d tightened earlier that morning. She wasn’t wrong. The suit, once snug and form-fitting, now sagged slightly in places, especially around my waist and chest. Even the chest harness felt lighter and looser, no longer pressing as firmly as it used to. It was subtle, but I couldn’t ignore the way my body seemed to be shrinking, shifting in ways I hadn’t fully registered until now.


    “I’m fine,” I said quickly, sharper than I intended. “Holt’s just pushing me hard, that’s all.”


    Yates’s expression didn’t waver, her concern unwavering. “It’s not normal,” she said gently, her tone more careful now. “I’d like to run some tests. Just to make sure everything’s okay.”


    The suggestion hit me like a jolt of electricity, panic sparking in my chest. I shook my head. “It’s not necessary,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I can handle it.”


    Her frown deepened. “Sol—”


    “I’m fine.” The words came out harsher than I meant, and I immediately regretted it. I softened my tone, forcing a tired smile. “Really. I’ve got this.”


    She studied me for another long moment, her eyes searching mine. Finally, she sighed and handed me another protein bar. “Just... take care of yourself, alright? If anything feels off, you need to come to me.”


    I nodded, stuffing the second protein bar into my pocket. “Sure, Yates.”


    But as I left the med bay, her words lingered. The concern in her voice wasn’t something I could easily shake, and I knew she wasn’t wrong. My body was changing faster than I could explain, and even Yates—kind, patient Yates—was starting to notice how far from normal I really was.


    The whispers hadn’t stopped. They weren’t constant, but they came when I was alone, slipping into the silence like a thread unraveling in the back of my mind. My father’s voice, faint but distinct: “Claim my legacy. Humanity was born to inherit the stars.”


    At first, I tried to ignore them, to write them off as nothing more than memories resurfacing in my stressed-out mind. But they were too clear, too sharp to be mere echoes of the past. Once, when I was walking back to my quarters late at night, I thought I saw something—those eyes, glowing faintly in the darkness at the end of the hallway.


    I froze, my breath catching in my throat, every muscle locking up as fear gripped me. But when I blinked, the eyes were gone, leaving only the empty corridor and the low hum of the ship.


    “You’re just tired,” I muttered to myself, trying to shake the image. “It’s nothing. Just your imagination.”


    But the fear lingered, crawling under my skin and refusing to let go.


    Holt’s training sessions didn’t help. They were brutal—each one more grueling than the last. He didn’t hold back, and every time I thought I couldn’t take another hit, he’d push me harder, testing the limits of what I could endure, forcing me to find strength where I thought I had none.


    By the end of each session, I was drenched in sweat, my muscles screaming in protest, my body battered and bruised. But the recovery didn’t last days—it barely lasted hours. Even when Holt delivered a beating that should have left me bedridden, I could feel myself healing as the evening went on. The bruises faded, the stiffness in my joints eased, and the sharp aches dulled. If Holt didn’t completely destroy me during a session, by the time I hit my bunk, I was almost as good as new.


    But the healing wasn’t without limits. The hunger was relentless, my body demanding fuel for the constant repairs it was forcing upon itself. I’d begun to notice a troubling pattern—when I didn’t eat enough, the process slowed. My bruises lingered, the aches stuck around longer, and the fatigue seeped deeper into my bones. It was like my body was rationing its resources, prioritizing what it could heal with the energy it had.


    The weight loss wasn’t just noticeable; it was horrifying. I caught my reflection in the mirror last night, and the person staring back didn’t look like me. My frame was skeletal, my skin pulled tight over bones that jutted out where they shouldn’t. I was never heavy—if anything, I’d always been a little too well-endowed in places I would’ve happily traded for practicality. But now, even those curves were gone. My chest was flatter, my hips narrower, and my waist… God, my waist. It wasn’t an hourglass anymore—it was a hollow.


    This isn’t possible. The thought clawed its way through my mind, leaving a trail of cold dread. A body doesn’t just eat itself like this in a matter of days. It felt like some cruel trick, like I’d stepped into a nightmare where the mirror showed me something I couldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried.


    I tightened my suit straps again this morning, desperate to stop it from sagging. The chest harness that used to feel snug was loose now, sliding awkwardly against my ribs. My hands trembled as I adjusted it, the fabric pressing into the ridges of my collarbone.


    You’re fine, it’s just stress. Holt’s training is intense. You’ll bounce back. The words rang hollow, a desperate chant against the truth. My body wasn’t bouncing back—it was breaking down. I could feel it in the aching emptiness of my stomach, the way my limbs felt too light but too weak at the same time.


    You’re disappearing, a small voice whispered at the edge of my mind. Piece by piece.


    I could only guess what was happening—my body consuming itself, sacrificing fat and excess to keep me alive and functional. It left me uneasy, the questions mounting with every session and every meal that still didn’t feel like enough. For all my supposed resilience, it was clear: survival came with a price.


    Holt noticed. His sharp gaze missed nothing. He didn’t comment outright, but there were moments after a particularly rough session where I could feel his eyes on me, watching as my bruises faded too quickly, as my movements steadied when they should still have been clumsy with pain. Once, as he handed me a towel, I caught a flicker of something in his expression—not surprise exactly, but a quiet recognition, almost like curiosity. It disappeared before I could say anything, leaving me wondering just how much he knew—or suspected.


    “You’re like a punching bag that resets every day,” he said one morning, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “No bruises, no swelling. Just... new. Though, you’re looking a little skinnier each time.”


    I didn’t know what to say. My stomach twisted, the truth hovering at the edge of my tongue, but I swallowed it down. Holt didn’t press me for answers, didn’t ask any questions. He just handed me a towel, but this time, he lingered for a moment longer than usual. His sharp eyes flicked over me, noting the way my pressure suit hung slightly looser, how the once tight fit had turned into something awkward and ill-fitting. Without a word, he walked over to one of the lockers, pulled out a box, and handed it to me.


    “You need to eat,” he said simply, his tone blunt but not unkind. “You’re no use to anyone if you waste away.”


    I blinked at the box, heavy with ration bars and protein packs, and then back up at him, unsure of what to say. Before I could form a response, he added, “Can’t afford to lose my favorite punching bag. You’re the only one who doesn’t stay broken—saves me the paperwork.”


    It was the first time I’d heard Holt make anything resembling a joke, and it hit me like one of his punches—unexpected and oddly sharp. I wondered, not for the first time, what he really knew. Holt wasn’t just the ship’s security; I’d learned from Reid that he was the one who helped seal Lab 3 under Warren’s orders. The thought gnawed at me as I walked back to my quarters, the cryptic comment lingering in the air like a challenge I couldn’t quite ignore.


    How much does he know about Project Phoenix? My mind drifted back to the note and photo I’d found. Could it have been him? The idea twisted in my head, a nagging thread of uncertainty. He’s careful, methodical... it would make sense.


    A few days later, as I leaned against the wall outside the training room, still catching my breath from Holt’s latest session, I touched my mouth gingerly, nursing a tooth Holt had knocked out during a brutal hit. The gap it left behind hadn’t lasted long—less than a day—and already a new one was growing in.


    But this new tooth felt… wrong. It was sharp, far too sharp. Earlier, when I’d run my tongue over it to check, I’d cut myself, the sting and taste of blood making my stomach churn. Now, even the slightest brush of my tongue against its edge sent a chill down my spine. The tooth wasn’t just new—it was different, alien.


    As I stared down the hallway, lost in the unease creeping over me, Reid walked up, holding out a bottle of water.


    “You’re keeping him on his toes,” he said, his voice carrying the usual teasing note, but his eyes scanned my face, lingering on the bruises and swelling. “But, Sol, you’re burning through yourself fast. Maybe you should talk to Yates about the weight thing. Rapid changes like that… it’s not exactly normal.”


    I looked down, fiddling with the straps of my suit. “Yeah, I’m working on it,” I said, not meeting his eyes.


    Reid gave me a small, crooked grin, trying to keep it light. “Just saying, if you keep shrinking, I’m gonna have to recalibrate your suit. Don’t make me do extra work.”


    <div>


    I snorted softly, but his words stuck with me longer than I wanted to admit. Holt might have been joking, but the concern behind his tone was real. And he wasn’t wrong—my body was changing faster than I could keep up with, the questions piling up just as quickly as my appetite.


    I resolved to tear into the box Holt had given me and triple my intake. I was hungry enough to eat it all in one sitting if I could. But no matter how many protein bars I forced down, it never seemed to be enough. The hunger gnawed at me, deep and relentless, twisting into something unfamiliar—something primal. The processed bars tasted like cardboard, their artificial flavor only fueling the frustration.


    My mind wandered to the thought of something fresh, something real—meat. The idea clung to me, vivid and unsettling, as if my body was screaming for more than just sustenance. It wanted something raw, something alive. The protein bars, dry and tasteless, only fueled the craving further, leaving me restless and unsatisfied. My teeth ached with the thought, and I caught myself biting the inside of my cheek, tasting the faint tang of blood on my tongue. It wasn’t enough. I shook the thought off, but the craving lingered, sharper and more insistent than the hunger itself.


    The whispers stayed with me too, creeping into the edges of my thoughts when I was alone. They were quiet, just faint enough to make me doubt whether I’d actually heard them, but they never fully went away. Lately, they’d started saying different things—fragmented phrases that made no sense but left a chill crawling down my spine. Something alive. Something fresh. Claim it. The words echoed with a strange rhythm, like they were coming from somewhere deep inside me. They felt as real as the hunger, as undeniable and intrusive, weaving into my thoughts like they belonged there.


    I couldn’t shake the thought: Is it the weight loss? The lack of food? Am I losing it? The gnawing hunger, the constant strain—maybe my mind was finally starting to crack under the pressure. But even as I tried to dismiss the whispers as nothing more than my own exhaustion, there was something unsettlingly real about them, like they weren’t just echoes in my head but a presence reaching out from somewhere else. That idea, horrifying as it was, felt more plausible the longer I spent trying to silence them.


    Then, as if my own thoughts were betraying me, a stray image flashed across my mind—raw meat, bright and glistening with blood, the kind you’d find behind the counter at an old butcher shop. My stomach twisted, not with disgust but with longing, the craving so sharp it made me flinch.


    What the fuck? I thought, a chill spreading through me. I like rare steak. That’s it. I’m not some animal. But even as I tried to shake it off, the thought lingered, insistent and primal, gnawing at the edge of my sanity. The craving didn’t fade—it grew, pushing past my rationality, demanding more than I was willing to admit.


    A few days passed, blurring into a haze of reflection and gnawing unease. I caught my reflection in the mirror again—wild white hair, mismatched eyes, one faintly glowing red. Once, those changes had consumed me, but now they felt trivial compared to what was happening beneath the surface. My teeth were the most striking change—four sharp, inhuman replacements for my canines. I winced as my tongue brushed one, the sting of blood followed by the unsettlingly fast healing of the cut.


    Holt’s training didn’t help. His hits, too deliberate to be accidents, knocked out more teeth, each replaced with something sharper, more alien. He never commented, but his sharp gaze lingered, like he was testing me. My own mouth had become a weapon, one I had to handle carefully, each slip of control leaving my cheeks and tongue nicked and bleeding.


    This isn’t normal, I thought, gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned white. But what was normal anymore? My reflection—white hair, red eye, razor-sharp teeth—stared back like a marker of something unfinished.


    The cravings were the worst. They gnawed at me constantly, a primal hunger that no amount of rations could satisfy. The memory of blood lingered, sharper and more vivid than any meal. Yet, as I forced down the bland protein bars and dry rations, the cravings dulled, smoldering rather than burning. My weight crept back, my strength steadied, but the unease never left. The hunger, like the whispers in my mind, waited for a moment of weakness.


    The days dragged on, the monotony broken only by training, work, and the growing pull of Lab 3. Every time I passed that section of the ship, the whispers grew louder, sharper, like my father’s voice reaching through the walls. Claim my legacy. Unlock the truth. The crew thought they were keeping me safe, but I knew better. They were keeping me out. The door was a barrier not just to the past, but to the answers I needed—and maybe to what I was becoming.


    Then, one morning, Reid and I were assigned to recalibrate a system in the lower decks. The task felt routine, but the weight in my chest told me otherwise. This wasn’t coincidence. The whispers wouldn’t allow that. Lab 3 was waiting.


    The task felt routine, but as soon as we descended into the bowels of the Jericho, the air shifted. It was colder down there, heavier, like the ship itself was holding its breath. The whispers, which had mercifully faded over the last few days, started again, faint at first, like static at the edge of my thoughts. I tried to ignore them, tried to focus on the work, but with every step closer to Lab 3, they grew sharper, louder, insistent.


    By the time we reached the maintenance panel, they were no longer whispers. They were a roar, an overwhelming tide of fragmented phrases crashing through my mind, pulling me under. My fingers shook as I held a tool, struggling to concentrate while Reid muttered something about wiring.


    Then, the voice came, cutting through everything like a blade of ice:


    "Project Phoenix is the final evolution, open the door."


    The words weren’t muffled or distant this time. They were clear and undeniable, freezing me in place. My hands hovered over the controls, trembling, as a chill spread through my body. It wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t a dream. It was alive, immediate, and impossible to escape. No matter how much weight I regained, no matter how much the cravings faded, I couldn’t quiet this. And I knew, deep down, that there was no escaping it—not until I found the answers. And maybe not even then.


    “You good?” Reid asked, his voice snapping me back.


    I forced a nod, my throat dry. “Yeah. Just tired.”


    But it wasn’t tiredness. It was the weight of the whispers, the pull of Lab 3, a door I couldn’t stop thinking about. Every time I passed this section of the ship, they seemed to get louder, like my father’s voice was reaching for me through the walls, unraveling the threads of my resolve. The crew might have thought they were protecting me, redirecting me, keeping me away from the labs—but I was starting to see the truth. It wasn’t about keeping me safe. It was about keeping me out.


    “We just need to check a few calibrations,” Reid said, glancing at his datapad. “Won’t take long.”


    I barely heard him. My attention was on the sterile coldness of the air, the way it felt heavier the closer we got to Lab 3. The lab wasn’t visible yet, but I could feel its presence like a weight pressing against my chest. The whispers were no longer faint. They were roaring now, flooding my mind with fragmented phrases.


    Unlock the door and you unlock the truth. Find it. Claim your legacy. Evolve.


    I gripped the tool tighter, willing myself to focus on the task, but my hands shook as the words hammered into me. Every second we spent here felt like the ship itself was pushing me closer to that sealed door. The thought of what might be behind it—what truths, what horrors—twisted in my gut, but it didn’t stop the pull.


    Reid worked quietly beside me, unaware of the storm in my mind. I forced myself to breathe, to move, to mimic the calm focus he showed, but my pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out everything but the whispers.


    I glanced down the corridor where Lab 3 lay, its sealed door hidden just around the bend. The pull was undeniable now, almost physical, like a tether wrapped around my chest. It wasn’t coincidence that brought me here today. It couldn’t be. The whispers wouldn’t allow that. The ship wouldn’t allow that.


    And as the voice echoed again in my mind—sharp, commanding, undeniable—I knew one thing for certain: Lab 3 was waiting for me.


    “We just need to check a few calibrations,” Reid said, his tone casual as he tapped something on his datapad. “Shouldn’t take long.”


    I followed him down the narrow hallway, the glow of the overhead lights casting long shadows that flickered with each step. At the end of the hall stood Lab 3, its thick steel doors shut tight. Just looking at it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.


    As we approached, the sound of voices carried down the hall—sharp, low murmurs that I recognized immediately.


    Garin.


    He was standing with Jimmy near the entrance to one of the other labs. When they saw us, Garin’s sharp gaze immediately fixed on me, his eyes narrowing in a way that made my stomach tighten.


    My stomach growled, sharp and insistent. I bit my tongue, wincing at the metallic tang of blood. For a split second, the thought of sinking my teeth into him—into flesh—flashed through my mind.


    I clenched my fists, shaking it off, but the anger twisted into something darker, something primal. What the hell is happening to me?


    Reid, however, didn’t flinch. He met Garin’s stare head-on, his expression calm but firm. Whatever silent challenge passed between them ended when Garin finally looked away, muttering something to Jimmy under his breath. The two of them laughed quietly, their voices dripping with a disdain that made my cheeks burn.


    Ashly was with them, standing slightly behind Garin, her hands clutching a tablet close to her chest. When Garin turned to leave, muttering something about wasted time, Ashly hesitated for a moment before giving me a small wave.


    Her movements were quick, furtive, like she didn’t want Garin to notice. A faint bruise still lingered on her temple, partially hidden by a bandage, but she seemed otherwise okay—if not a little nervous.


    “Come on,” Reid said, his voice pulling my attention away from them. He gave Garin and Jimmy one last pointed look before turning back to the task at hand.


    I followed Reid, glancing back over my shoulder as Garin and Jimmy disappeared into another lab. Ashly lingered for a moment longer before hurrying after them, her head low.


    When we finally stopped near the base of Lab 3, Reid knelt to check one of the systems, muttering under his breath as he tapped at the exposed panel.


    “You’ve been quiet,” he said without looking up.


    I hesitated, my gaze drifting toward the massive doors of Lab 3, looming like a weight I couldn’t shake. “I need to know what’s in there.”


    Reid didn’t answer immediately. He finished tightening a connection, then stood, brushing his hands off on his pants. His usual easy grin wasn’t there this time; instead, his expression was cautious, careful.


    “Look, I don’t know everything,” he said finally, his voice low. “But I know enough to say you’re better off staying away from it.”


    “Why?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, the frustration spilling over. “What’s so bad in there that it has to stay sealed?”


    Reid rubbed the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the door before meeting my gaze. “I wasn’t part of whatever happened in there, alright? That was Warren’s call, and I trust him. If he says it needs to stay shut, then I believe him.” He hesitated, his tone softening just slightly. “From what I’ve picked up, it was... bad. Your father’s work didn’t stop when he was gone. They kept going, and it went too far. That’s all I’ve got.”


    His words hung in the air, heavy and incomplete.


    “What does ‘too far’ mean?” I asked, stepping closer.


    Reid shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I’m not a scientist, Sol. But from what I’ve pieced together, it’s human experimentation. The kind you don’t come back from.” He glanced at the door again, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “And whatever’s in there... it doesn’t belong out here with the rest of us.”


    I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. “So you’re just going to trust Warren? No questions, no doubts?”


    Reid’s gaze hardened, his voice steady. “Yeah. I trust him. You should, too.” He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly. “I don’t know what happened, but I know this—if Warren says it stays shut, then it stays shut. He’s kept us alive this long, hasn’t he?”


    I clenched my fists, the pull of the door stronger than ever. “You’re not curious? Not even a little?”


    “Curious? Sure,” Reid admitted, a faint edge of discomfort slipping into his voice. “But not stupid. There’s nothing in there worth opening that door for, Sol. Believe me.”


    He gave me a faint, tired smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. I could see the unease lingering behind it, the weight of things he wasn’t saying.


    “You should let it go,” he added, his tone softer now. “Whatever’s in there, it’s not your problem to solve. Don’t go looking for something you can’t unsee.”


    I forced a weak smile, but his words did nothing to quiet the whispers clawing at the edges of my thoughts. “Sure, Reid,” I said, my voice light enough to sound believable. “I’ll let it go.”


    But as he turned back to the panel, the knot in my stomach tightened. I wasn’t going to let it go. I couldn’t. The whispers wouldn’t let me.


    Claim your birthright. Humanity was born to inherit the stars. Lab 3 holds the key.


    The words threaded through my mind, fragments of my father’s voice too sharp and vivid to dismiss. It wasn’t just the whispers anymore. Sometimes, when I passed this section of the ship, I swore I heard faint noises—shuffling, scraping. Barely audible, but enough to chill me.


    Lab 3 loomed in my thoughts, its presence growing heavier with each passing day. Whatever was sealed behind that door wasn’t silent—it was waiting.


    As we left the lower decks, the tension in my chest lingered. My strength was returning, but the whispers gnawed at me, their urgency sharpening with every step away from Lab 3. Find it. Unlock the truth. Claim your legacy... Evolve.


    Flashes of memory blurred with the whispers—my father’s lab, sterile lights, the sharp tang of antiseptic. His voice cut through the haze, commanding: “Humanity must adapt, Sol. You must adapt.”


    The whispers didn’t feel external anymore. They were becoming part of me, unraveling the threads of my resolve. I glanced back down the corridor where Lab 3 stood, sealed and impenetrable. Yet something felt different this time. Or maybe it was just me.


    How would I even get in? The locks were High-level clearance, impossible to bypass without someone letting me in. Directly asking for access wasn’t an option—Garin would seize the chance to drag me down further. But if anyone held the key, it was Knight.


    The idea gripped me. Knight. My father’s most trusted ally. She knew more about him and his work than anyone else, likely more than Garin ever could. Her loyalty to him ran deep; it had to. But so did her bitterness. That much I’d pieced together even before she went into cryo. Garin’s promotion over her had cut her down, humiliated her.


    If I could use that bitterness, twist it just enough, maybe she’d help me—not because she cared about me, but because she’d see it as a way to strike at Garin. I didn’t trust her, couldn’t, but loyalty to my father’s work and spite for Garin might be enough to get her on my side.


    Still, I couldn’t rely on that gamble. Time wasn’t on my side. I could feel the invisible clock ticking down, pushing me closer to the edge. They’d send me back into cryo eventually, sealing me away while they continued their work, while the secrets behind Lab 3 stayed buried. If I went under again without answers, without seeing what was locked behind that door, I might never know the truth.


    The note surfaced in my mind once more, the words seared into my thoughts:


    I’m so sorry for what we have done. Nature never meant for anything to live forever, let alone become… this. Lab 3 must stay sealed. Live your life. The horrors in Lab 3 should be forgotten. Evolution is better left to nature and god. Abandon your father’s legacy—I beg you.


    I didn’t know who left it or why. Were they trying to protect me? Manipulate me? Did they know what I’d become, or were they simply terrified of the past? The questions churned, relentless, impossible to ignore.


    Live your life. The words clung to me, fragile yet weighted with impossible hope. What life? Did I even have one to live? For a moment, I let myself dream—what would it be like if I’d ever had a choice? If my father hadn’t shaped every step, carved every path before I even learned to walk my own?


    When I was younger, I’d tried to fight against him—sneaking out, defying his expectations, imagining a future that didn’t orbit his towering influence. But those acts of rebellion had been fleeting, snuffed out by his quiet, unshakable authority. He didn’t need to yell or punish. His disappointment alone was enough to crush my resolve.


    Even now, long after his death, I couldn’t escape him. His voice lingered in the whispers, his presence seeped into the ship, into the sealed door, into my blood and bones. His legacy clung to me, pulling me toward the fragments he’d left behind. Could I ever be more than his creation, more than his experiment?


    The thought sliced through me, raw and unyielding. I tried to imagine a life that was mine—a life untethered from his shadow. But it felt distant, hollow, like reaching for a star that would only burn me if I got too close. Every choice I made still echoed with his influence, every step taken still felt bound to the path he’d set.


    And the truth that gnawed at me most? God damn it, Daddy... I miss you so much.


    How could you do this to me? I know you loved me, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a monster.


    I just want to be free. Is that so much to ask? Just one life—one moment—that’s mine. Not yours, not your legacy, not your damn plan for humanity. Just mine.


    But even now, after everything, I can’t let go. I still hear your voice. I still feel you here, in every step I take, in every mother fucking breath I draw.


    You’ve been dead for decades, and I’m still trapped in your shadow. And the worst part? I don’t even know if I want out.


    And then there was Knight. Would she be the key to unlocking Lab 3, or just another lock keeping me out?


    I turned back toward the upper levels, my fists clenched, my jaw tight. The whispers lingered, their pull sharper than ever, tugging at the edges of my resolve. They didn’t just call me toward the door—they called me toward the truth. Toward him.


    Lab 3 loomed in my mind, the answers buried behind its sealed door like a black hole, pulling everything into its gravity. I already knew I’d go back. I already knew I couldn’t leave it alone.


    The real question wasn’t just what I’d find when I did—it was what I’d become.