The corridor stretched inward.
Soren moved away from Atticus's quarters without hurry, his steps measured and even, the hum of the Aurelius settling back around him as the door slid shut behind his shoulder. The mid-deck thinned gradually as he walked, the flow of crew dispersing into side corridors and stairwells until the path ahead grew quieter, narrower, more intimate.
The quarters corridor began where the light softened.
Panels dimmed incrementally as the architecture shifted, the wide openness of the mid-deck giving way to something more contained. The walls curved in slightly, the ceiling lowering by degrees subtle enough to go unnoticed unless one was paying attention.
Soren was paying attention.
He walked past the first door.
Then another.
He did not rush. He did not linger. He simply counted.
Fifty-nine.
Fifty-eight.
The numbers descended as he moved deeper, each door marked clearly beside its panel, each one sealed, quiet, unassuming. The wind behaved differently here. It slipped along the corridor in faint, uneven currents, brushing past him in intermittent touches that carried less bite than before. Still cold. Still present. But restrained.
Fifty-six.
Fifty-five.
His ankle held beneath him, the stiffness dulled now into something manageable, almost distant. The earlier ache had retreated to the edges of his awareness, replaced by a steadier sensation—weight, balance, the rhythm of movement. His breathing remained even, though he was conscious of it now in a way he hadn't been earlier. Each inhale required a fraction more effort than it should have.
He continued.
Fifty-two.
Fifty-one.
The corridor deepened.
Sound behaved differently here, too. The hum softened, losing some of its sharpness, its edges absorbed by the closeness of the walls. Footsteps echoed faintly, then faded again. No voices followed him. No doors opened.
Forty-eight.
Forty-seven.
Memory rose unbidden.
The image came with uncomfortable clarity—the earlier moment, before dawn, when he had stepped out into this same corridor and seen the man moving away from him. The posture. The confidence. The steady, unhesitating stride that carried him further in rather than out.
Toward the lower numbers.
Toward the depths of the quarters.
Soren's pace slowed just slightly.
Forty-four.
Forty-three.
He remembered the way his chest had tightened then, how his heart had skipped without reason he could name. How the figure's shoulders had been set back, wide and sure, steps heavy and grounded in a way that did not belong to someone drifting through the corridor by chance.
He remembered thinking, That isn't right.
He stopped for half a breath.
The corridor remained empty.
No movement. No sound beyond the low hum threading through the walls. Doors stood closed on either side of him, identical in form, unremarkable in their stillness. The numbers beside them glowed softly, indifferent to his attention.
Forty.
Thirty-nine.
Thirty-eight.
His hand curled briefly at his side.
Atticus's words surfaced with quiet insistence.
Do nothing further.
Do not pursue.
Observe only if it does not place you at risk.
Soren exhaled slowly and resumed walking.
He did not look deeper down the corridor. He did not scan for shadows or silhouettes. He did not allow his thoughts to drift toward what might lie beyond the next turn, or the next door, or the next narrowing stretch of passage.
He merely counted. The act grounded him. Gave his mind something precise to hold onto, something that existed outside speculation and fear. Numbers did not lie. They did not shift when looked at too closely.
His door waited where it always had.
Thirty-seven.
Soren slowed as he reached it, stopping just short of the panel. For a moment, he simply stood there, his hand hovering near the keypad, listening to the hum and the faint whisper of wind threading through the corridor.
Nothing followed him.
No footsteps. No voices. No sense of being observed.
He entered the passcode and stepped inside.
The door slid shut behind him with a soft, final sound.
Warmth enveloped him immediately.
His quarters were quiet, the air settled and still compared to the corridors beyond. The lighting adjusted automatically as he entered, panels brightening just enough to ease the shadows without breaking the calm. The faintest slip of wind threaded in through the narrow gap beneath the door, brushing against his boots before dissipating.
Soren stood there for several moments, unmoving.
He let himself breathe.
The effort was noticeable now. Not painful, not alarming—but present. Each breath carried a faint strain at its edges, his chest tightening just enough to remind him that something was not quite right. He placed a hand briefly against the wall, grounding himself in its solidity, then let it fall back to his side.
He removed his coat and set it aside.
The fabric felt heavier than usual as it slid from his shoulders, the act of shedding it bringing a faint sense of relief. He crossed the room and washed his hands at the basin, the water warm against his skin. He lingered there longer than necessary, watching the droplets bead and run, letting the repetitive motion steady his thoughts.
When he finished, he dried his hands and turned back toward the bed.
Early dawn light filtered faintly through the narrow window panel, casting a muted glow across the room. It was not full morning yet. Just enough to signal that time was moving forward, regardless of whether he was ready for it.
Soren sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight, familiar and grounding. He remained there for a moment, his posture straight, his gaze unfocused. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured rhythm. The hum of the Aurelius threaded through the walls, constant and unintrusive.
He lay back.
The sheets were cool against his skin, the blankets heavier than he remembered. He pulled them closer without fully wrapping himself in them, letting their weight settle where it would. The faint whisper of wind beneath the door continued, a reminder of the world beyond his quarters.
He closed his eyes.
Rest, he reminded himself.
Not sleep.
Just rest.
The thought anchored him as his breathing evened, the edges of the room softening without disappearing entirely.
_________________________
Cold came first.
Not sharp. Not immediate. It crept in slowly, threading itself beneath the blanket and into the spaces between thought and sensation. Soren stirred without fully waking, his body reacting before his mind could follow. His fingers curled tighter into the fabric, drawing it closer around his chest, as though instinct alone could seal the warmth back in.
The hum was louder.
Or perhaps it had always been this loud, and only now did his half-waking mind notice it—pressing, constant, closer to the surface than it should have been. It filled the room in layers, steady but insistent, vibrating faintly through the bed beneath him.
He drifted.
In and out.
The boundary between sleep and wake felt thin, unstable. Images surfaced without context and faded again before he could grasp them—corridors stretching too long, numbers descending without end, wind rushing upward through unseen spaces. Somewhere in it all, his chest felt tight, breathing shallow and uneven, each inhale stopping just short of satisfaction.
He frowned faintly, brows drawing together.
Cold again.
He shifted beneath the blankets, pulling them higher, curling slightly onto his side. The movement cost more effort than it should have. His limbs felt heavy, as though weighted from the inside, joints stiff and uncooperative. His ankle twinged dully as he moved—not sharp pain, just a reminder that his body was not entirely his own yet.
The hum swelled.
Or no—something else layered over it.
A sound.
He surfaced more fully then, awareness snapping into sharper focus for a brief, disorienting moment. The room was dim but brightening, light filtering in through the window panel in a way that suggested morning rather than dawn. His mouth felt dry. His skin felt hot beneath the blanket despite the chill threading through him.
Another sound.
A knock.
Soren's eyes opened.
The ceiling swam slightly before settling. He blinked once, then again, trying to anchor himself in the room. His head throbbed faintly, a dull pressure behind his eyes that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
The knock came again.
Or had it?
He lay still, listening.
The hum continued unabated, steady and present. The wind whispered faintly beneath the door, brushing against the floor in soft, errant currents. No voices followed. No footsteps passed.
His heart beat faster.
Was that real?
The question surfaced sluggishly, delayed by the haze fogging his thoughts. He tried to recall the sound precisely—the rhythm, the weight of it—but it slipped away when he reached for it, leaving only the impression of having heard something.
Heat radiated from his skin now, unmistakable. He shifted his arm from beneath the blanket and pressed the back of his hand briefly to his forehead.
Too warm.
The realization came slowly, but with certainty. Fever, then. That explained the heaviness, the blurred edges of thought, the way the room felt slightly out of alignment.
Soren swallowed, throat dry, and forced himself upright.
The movement sent a wave of dizziness through him, stronger than before. He paused, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed slightly, breathing shallow and careful until the sensation eased. Sweat clung faintly to his skin despite the cold threading through his limbs.
His ankle protested as he stood, stiff but manageable, bearing his weight without giving way. He reached for the coat he had worn earlier and shrugged it on, movements slower now, more deliberate.
The light in the room was brighter than he expected.
Full morning, then—or close to it. He frowned faintly, disoriented by the passage of time. He had not meant to sleep this long. He could not remember slipping fully into sleep at all.
The door.
The thought pressed forward with renewed urgency.
Soren crossed the room and opened the door, stepping just far enough into the corridor to look both ways. A soft rush of wind greeted him, brushing against his face and the exposed skin of his neck, cool and unmistakably present.
The corridor was empty.
No figures. No retreating silhouettes. No sign that anyone had stood there moments before. The quarters corridor stretched inward in both directions, quiet and still, doors sealed and unresponsive.
Soren frowned.
For a heartbeat, doubt crept in, cold and insidious. Fever dreams. Half-sleep hallucinations. His body was not well; his senses could not be trusted completely.
That made sense.
He closed the door and stepped back inside, the warmth of his quarters enveloping him once more. The hum softened slightly, muffled by the walls, though it never disappeared entirely.
Maybe he had misheard.
That, too, made sense.
He crossed to the bedside table and tapped the slate with fingers that felt clumsier than usual.
9:20.
Soren exhaled slowly.
Not as late as he had feared. Late enough to explain the brightness, though. Late enough that the ship had fully transitioned into its morning rhythm.
He could still make the meeting.
Barely.
The thought brought with it a flicker of urgency, quickly tempered by the weight in his chest and the dull ache behind his eyes. He needed to be careful. Efficient. Waste no energy where it wasn't needed.
He moved toward the washroom and started the bath, setting the temperature higher than usual. Steam rose slowly, fogging the mirror as the water warmed. When he stepped in, the heat seeped into him immediately, easing the tightness in his muscles and loosening the chill that had settled too deeply into his bones.
He rested his forehead briefly against the tiled wall, eyes closed.
His mind refused to rest.
Unfamiliar crew.
Theerin dialect.
Integration.
The Aurelius holding steady despite it all.
What had already been set in motion?
What were they waiting for?
The questions circled without answers, looping endlessly through his thoughts. He had nothing new to record. No confirmations. Only impressions and instincts, all of which Atticus had already taken into account.
Lay low.
The order echoed quietly in his mind.
Soren straightened and shut off the water, the heat lingering against his skin as he stepped out. He dressed slowly, choosing warmer layers, movements careful and economical. The fever dulled his reflexes slightly, forcing him to focus on each action rather than letting muscle memory carry him through.
When he finished, he paused by the window.
The sky beyond had changed.
Earlier, it had been clear—pale and open, promising a calm morning. Now, clouds had gathered overhead, spreading quickly across the expanse in a way that dimmed the light and cast everything in muted gray. The shift felt too fast, too abrupt.
Another anomaly, then.
Soren took his ledger from the bedside table and tucked it under his arm before leaving the room.
The wind greeted him again in the corridor, brushing against his neck and settling around his boots. It was still cold, undeniably so, but the heavier clothing dulled its edge enough that he did not shiver.
He walked with precision.
Not haste—precision. Choosing the most efficient route toward the mess, conserving energy, keeping his pace even and controlled. His ankle remained stiff but responsive, the earlier numbness replaced by a low, constant awareness that guided his steps.
The mess was already active when he entered.
Groups of crew occupied the tables, voices overlapping in low, familiar patterns. The sight of so many people gathered at once sent a brief spike of tension through him, his awareness sharpening instinctively.
Too many eyes.
He held himself steady and moved forward anyway.
The counter displayed five platters now, arranged neatly beneath warming lights. More options than usual. More efficiency. A subtle improvement—one that might have gone unnoticed on any other day.
Soren hesitated.
Did this signify anything?
The thought surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome, but he dismissed it just as quickly. There was no evidence to support it. No pattern yet.
"Hey—Soren!"
Darrick emerged from the wet kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth as he approached the counter. His brows lifted immediately as he took in Soren's appearance.
"You don't look good," he said bluntly.
Soren managed a bare smile. The familiarity of the concern anchored him more than he expected. "Should've gotten more sleep, perhaps," he replied. "I'll get something light."
Darrick nodded without comment and lifted the covers from the platters one by one, revealing their contents. When he reached the simplest option—an egg and greens sandwich—he paused.
"Well then," he said, pushing it forward, "this is the lightest of all of them."
"Thank you," Soren said, genuine.
He took the sandwich and moved toward a seat near the corner, choosing a place where his back was protected and his view unobstructed. He sat, posture relaxed but attentive, and ate slowly.
The mess buzzed with quiet normalcy.
Laughter drifted from one table. Someone complained softly about a long shift. Cutlery clinked against trays. The Aurelius hummed beneath it all, steady and unchanged.
Soren observed.
Faces. Movements. Cadence.
Nothing stood out.
He finished eating and remained seated for a moment longer, letting the warmth of the food settle through him. The fever dulled at the edges but did not leave entirely, lingering like a low pressure beneath his skin.
Normal, he told himself.
Or normal enough.
When he finally rose, he did so carefully, conserving energy, movements precise and economical. He returned his tray, nodding faintly to no one in particular, and stepped back into the corridor outside the mess.
The hum followed him.
Steady. Present. Holding.
_________________________
The corridor beyond the mess felt colder.
Wind brushed past Soren's neck as he stepped into it, slipping beneath his collar and settling low around his boots. He adjusted his pace without conscious thought, conserving energy, keeping his steps measured and economical.
His ankle remained stiff but responsive. Each step landed cleanly. Deliberate.
The fever lingered at the edges of his awareness—dulling, not debilitating. A haze that demanded care rather than speed. He kept his breathing shallow and even, matching it to the rhythm of his stride.
The corridor stretched ahead, long and orderly, broken by junctions and access panels. Fewer voices here. Less movement. The hum of the Aurelius pressed closer to the surface, steady and omnipresent.
He passed one junction.
Then another.
He was nearly past the stairwell when something shifted at the edge of his vision.
Soren registered it instantly—before thought could intervene.
A figure.
Not close. Not approaching. Already moving.
The stairwell framed it for barely a second: tall, broad, cutting cleanly against the lighter space beyond. An officer's uniform caught the illumination just long enough to define structure rather than detail.
Wide shoulders.
Solid posture.
A presence that occupied space without hesitation.
The figure was ascending.
Not hurried. Not cautious.
Certain.
Soren did not stop.
He did not turn fully, did not break stride. His awareness sharpened, cataloguing what little there was to take in—the direction, the build, the confidence of the movement—before the figure vanished upward, absorbed by the architecture of the ship.
No echo of footsteps followed.
The corridor's rhythm did not change.
His heart gave a single, controlled beat—and settled.
He continued forward.
The medical bay smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm metal.
It was quieter than the mess, quieter even than the corridors—sound softened here by layered insulation and deliberate design. Light panels glowed steadily overhead, neither too bright nor dim, calibrated for examination rather than comfort.
Soren stepped inside and let the doors slide shut behind him.
The air felt different. Cleaner. Thinner, somehow. As if the ship itself held its breath here.
Rysen was already moving.
"Sit," he said, not sharply, but without hesitation, gesturing toward the examination chair near the center of the bay. His earlier fatigue was still present in the lines beneath his eyes, but it had sharpened now into focus.
Soren obeyed, lowering himself carefully. The chair adjusted automatically beneath his weight, humming softly as it calibrated. He rested his hands loosely against his thighs, posture upright but subdued.
Rysen crossed the short distance between them and reached for a scanner.
"You look worse than you did earlier," he said, tone observational rather than accusatory.
"I feel worse," Soren replied honestly.
Rysen hummed once in acknowledgment and began the scan, passing the device over Soren's chest, throat, then up toward his temples. The display flickered with quiet data only Rysen could see.
"Fever," Rysen said after a moment. "Mid and persistent. You're pushing through it instead of resting."
"I rested," Soren said.
Rysen glanced at him. One brow lifted slightly. "You stopped moving," he corrected. "That's not the same thing."
Soren didn't argue.
Rysen continued the examination, checking reflexes, pulse, the warmth at Soren's skin. When he pressed gently at the side of Soren's neck, Soren felt the tenderness immediately and winced despite himself.
"There," Rysen said quietly. "That shouldn't hurt that much."
"It doesn't usually," Soren replied.
"No," Rysen agreed. "It doesn't."
He stepped back and folded his arms loosely, studying Soren in silence for a moment. Not just the data—his posture, the way his breathing lagged half a second behind intention, the tension he carried even while seated.
"You've been under sustained stress," Rysen said finally. "Physical and mental. Your body's compensating, but it's not subtle about it."
Soren's gaze dropped briefly to the floor. "I'm functional."
"You're barely functional," Rysen corrected. "And you're bad at noticing when you're not."
That earned him a faint, tired huff of a laugh from Soren. "That sounds like something you've said before."
"Because it's something that keeps being true," Rysen replied.
He turned away and moved toward the dispensary, fingers moving quickly as he selected a vial and a cup. He returned and held them out.
"Drink," he said.
Soren took the cup without hesitation, swallowing the medicine in one go. It was bitter, sharp on his tongue, leaving a lingering warmth as it settled.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Antipyretic, mild stabilizer," Rysen said. "And something to keep you from crashing later."
Soren nodded. "Thank you."
Rysen watched him for a moment longer, then sighed softly. "You're going to rest after this."
Soren opened his mouth.
"That wasn't a suggestion," Rysen added calmly.
Soren closed it again. "I'll have to attend a meeting."
"You'll attend it," Rysen said. "And then you'll rest. If you don't, I'll find Atticus and make it very official."
That made Soren look up.
Rysen met his gaze evenly. "I'm serious."
"I know," Soren said quietly.
The tension eased just a fraction.
Rysen stepped back and gestured toward the door. "You're cleared to move. Slowly. And if you feel dizzy, you sit down. Immediately."
"Yes," Soren said.
He stood, testing his balance. The fever still lingered, a dull haze at the edges of his awareness, but the medicine had already begun to take effect, smoothing the sharpest points.
At the door, he paused and looked back. "Rysen."
"Yes?"
"These days," Soren said, choosing his words carefully. "Have you noticed anything… unusual?"
Rysen's expression shifted—just slightly. "I notice a lot of things," he said. "But nothing I can confirm yet."
That was answer enough.
Soren nodded once and stepped back into the corridor.
The doors slid shut behind him, sealing the medical bay away.
The corridor beyond felt colder again, the wind brushing past his neck and settling around his boots as he turned toward the upper deck. He adjusted his pace automatically, conserving energy, keeping his steps precise.
As he walked, the image of the shadow near the stairwell surfaced again—tall, broad, moving with certainty. He did not slow this time. Did not look back.
Atticus was handling it.
That trust settled deep, steadying him more than the medicine had.
The stairwell opened ahead, leading upward.
Soren placed his hand briefly against the rail, then began the ascent, the hum of the Aurelius rising to meet him as the ship continued on—holding, moving, sustaining.
So did he.
_________________________