Inside a military ship, no one carried weapons without direct orders. It was one of the first protocols every recruit learned: weapons remained locked in the armory, under constant watch, and were only distributed for missions, guard shifts, or heightened alert. Inside the common areas—dormitories, maintenance corridors, storage bays—conflicts, when they arose, were settled with words, fists, or dangerous silences. Anyone reckless enough to settle scores with their fists rarely did so in front of witnesses.
That was why none of the men there carried anything but the brutality of their own hands.
By that point in the mission, part of the crew was on extended rest shifts due to the duty rotation. Cargo bay C-7, located in the lower deck, had recently suffered a failure in its temperature and inventory sensors. Since the sector was out of direct use and did not store weapons or sensitive materials, the order to check it had been considered routine—and given to Corporal Grayson, one of the newest recruits still in the adaptation phase. He was sent alone, as was customary for light, low-risk tasks.
The problem was that information about such tasks, even minor ones, spread quickly among the lower sectors of the ship. Ramires and his two allies, also off-duty at that hour, overheard the talk about Grayson being sent to the lower deck and decided to get there first. The motive, none of them would admit out loud, though tensions and provocations between them and the young corporal had escalated in the past few days after the cafeteria incident.
Did Ramires truly want to clear his image?Or was he simply a sadist waiting for an opportunity?
There was no justification for attacking a fellow crewmate like that.
What mattered was that they were unloading all their frustrations onto someone who couldn't defend himself against three men while alone.
Moments earlier — elsewhere on the ship
Marin walked through the rear corridor with her jaw clenched and shoulders tense. The quiet warning from the maintenance operator still echoed in her mind: the newly installed motion sensor in cargo bay C-7 had been triggered by more than one human presence. And no one—no one—was authorized to be there at that hour.
"The last registered entry was Corporal Grayson's, but he should have left and locked the place by now," the woman whispered under her breath as she walked.After that... three more unauthorized entries.
Marin disliked assumptions. Even less when they involved someone like Joshua. A discreet, newly recruited corporal who avoided conflict and had never made mistakes.
This already demanded investigation.
Had someone broken in?
Taken the boy hostage?
No. That couldn't be. If such a thing had happened, it wouldn't be a corporal in a storage bay who'd be taken. Even considering that, she wasn't at ease.
The Lieutenant sensed something was wrong.
The intuition burned in the pit of her stomach.
Maybe it was just a misread signal.
Or big rats? There were no rats on a ship this modern...
No. The sensor had been installed with precision. Her project. She wouldn't make such a basic mistake. And the cameras...
She sighed.
Several sectors' cameras had been offline for days. The ship was under logistical rationing. In wartime, energy and systems were redirected to priority sectors. There was no luxury of redundancy.
That was why she herself descended to check. Even exhausted. Even after three consecutive shifts, her eyelids heavy with sleeplessness.
ZIMCKI!
As soon as she pushed open the side door to access the stairway to the lower deck, she felt the suffocating heat of the compartment. The smell of oxidized metal and stale oil clung to the air. The place seemed to breathe with her—stifling, damp, as if the ship itself was holding its breath in fear.
And then she saw something revolting.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Marin froze for a second.
Her eyes locked on the scene.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
After nearly five seconds, she began to descend.
CLACK, CLACK, CLACK...
Every step seemed to scream under the weight of urgency, yet the officer walked slowly as if nothing could touch her.
In shock, the men only stared at her.
CLACK, CLACK, CLACK...
The light flickered on the walls, casting twisted shadows.
When she reached the platform where the men stood in the storage bay, she saw clearly.
Joshua was crumpled on the floor like a broken doll. Eyes half-shut. Blood dripping down the side of his head.
Three men around him.
Three ghosts thirsty for death.
And then she spoke:
"What are you doing?"
It wasn't a shout.
She never shouted.
It was a sentence delivered in a thin, dry voice.
They all froze at the sight of her.
The shock paralyzed them.
It wasn't exactly Marin herself that frightened them—it was what her presence represented.
An officer in command, with enough authority to turn that scene into a sentence with no return. During wartime, a record of aggression or attempted homicide within the crew could ruin everything: career, freedom, reputation. Court-martial, prison, dishonorable discharge. For men like them, who only knew how to exist under the uniform, that was the end. There was no coming back.
That was why they paled. Not from fear of her, but from what she could do with the truth.
They didn't want to kill Grayson—they told themselves. "The bastard just wouldn't beg for mercy. He provoked until the end." When the situation spun out of control, only one solution remained: finish off the Corporal and make the body vanish. At sea, no one looked for deserters. The war was already swallowing the missing, and no one would waste time on another name erased among patrols and secret routes. A cold plan, but efficient.
They were not supposed to be discovered.Ever.
And now, with Marin standing there, everything tilted toward the abyss.
What would they do?
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Helmer turned first, pale. The other went pale as well, except for Ramires, who sweated but kept his eyes sharp, alert.
They tried an improvised explanation.
"Lieutenant, he suddenly fainted," one of them stammered. "We thought it was exhaustion, or some kind of fit. We tried to help."
"Yes, he fell by himself, hit his head..." the other added nervously.
"We tried to take him to the infirmary, but he got aggressive. It all happened so fast."
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Helmer, feeling the pressure, stepped forward, hesitant.
"We didn't know what to do. His radio broke in the fall... we thought it best to wait for someone," he said, nodding toward the communicator on the floor, still on, its casing cracked.
A ridiculous scene that couldn't fool even an inattentive or incompetent officer. Their story had so many holes they should have felt ashamed to open their mouths.
Marin said nothing.
Her gaze was fixed, impassive. No change in tone, no hint of doubt.
She already knew enough.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
When they realized their lie wouldn't hold—and noticed she was unarmed, even as a senior officer—panic took over.
Ramires, however, smiled.
A smile that reeked of rot.
A smile that reminded her of someone from the past and awoke the same feeling within her...
Disgust.
"Well, well... Seems the Lieutenant isn't as stupid as I thought," he said, keeping that same expression on his face.
Marin approached without haste.
Her gaze was like ground glass.
"You're going to regret every second of what you did here," she warned.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
The two men panicked even more, but before any of them could move, Ramires lunged at her.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
He tried to grab her shoulders, shoving her against the wall with his weight. Marin twisted her torso, broke free, and shoved him back, making him stumble two steps.
He laughed, panting.
"Fiery, huh? I like the ones that resist... I think I'll have some fun with you after I put you down..."
Then Ramires drew a knife from his boot.
"Here's the deal: Grayson dies, and if you cooperate, we won't hurt you. Simple, right?"
Marin sighed, bored.
There was no way they'd let her live after what she'd seen.
Did they really think she was that stupid?
He stepped closer, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"I bet that tough act of yours will vanish once I tear that uniform. You'll look beautiful with blood on your lips and your face on the floor."
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
Her stomach churned.
Still, she didn't hesitate.
She advanced.
The first to come at her was Helmer. A kick flew toward her—she caught his ankle midair and twisted. The crack of bone was sharp. He fell, screaming.
The second tried to grab her in a brute tackle. Marin spun under his arm, drove her elbow into the side of his neck, and threw him against a pile of crates. He didn't move again.
Ramires roared, charging with his fist raised. The Lieutenant dodged. One, two, three moves and she was behind him.
She slammed a knee into his kidney. When he turned, staggering, she struck him with a direct punch to the nose. Blood splattered. Grayson had already landed a hit there. Even without much strength, the rookie had given his all.
"YOU..." the Sergeant tried to shout, stumbling, "...don't give the orders here!"
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP...
"I am the hierarchy, you filthy animal!" Marin snapped, grabbing his collar before he collapsed, driving her knee into his stomach.
The Lieutenant wasn't physically stronger than the other soldiers, but her speed, paired with her quick thinking, always gave her the edge over larger, bulkier opponents.
The man collapsed.
She stood over him, chest heaving, jaw clenched.
She kicked between his legs and stomped with the heel of her boots.
The man came to from the sheer intensity of pain.
"Three against one. Against a boy barely standing. You're not men. You're trash."
Ramires screamed in agony, and unable to withstand it, passed out again.
I wanted to hit more... what a pity! Marin thought.
She crouched beside Joshua. He could barely focus his eyes, but he saw her. He had witnessed everything.
The Corporal tried to lift his hand.
She took it in hers.
"It's over. Don't strain yourself."
Then she pulled the communicator from her shoulder and pressed it.
"This is Lieutenant [surname]. I need assistance in sector C-7. Critical situation. Severe assault. Requesting immediate medical team and detention of three soldiers for attempted murder." Marin stared at the unconscious men. "One of them threatened sexual violence against a superior officer... I repeat: immediate arrest. Direct order."
She waited.
The reply came.
"Reinforcements on the way. Confirmed."
She stood. Once again, her eyes swept over the three aggressors sprawled on the floor like scraps unworthy of a uniform.
Joshua groaned softly in pain, but he was breathing.
He was alive.
And for now, that was enough.
Marin didn't wipe the blood from her uniform. She let it dry on her sleeve, a reminder that she was strong.
That she was capable of drawing blood from those who wished her harm.
She would never again be a frightened girl.
She walked to the door, opening space for the medical team arriving. Before leaving, she cast one last look at Ramires and his friends, still unconscious.
"Fools," she whispered.
And she disappeared into the corridor, alongside the moonlight that illuminated the ocean, black and deep.
To be continued...