I was halfway through folding the last load of linens when the door hissed open.

"What are you doing here?" The voice was sharp, clipped, unmistakably Zypherian.

I turned, slowly. My supervisor stood at the threshold, her features unreadable as always-angular, impassive, but her eyes-usually cool, disinterested-were locked on me with something else. Something keener than irritation.

It took me a beat to place it.

She wasn't annoyed.

She was... cautious.

"I'm on shift," I said, my voice a little too soft. I gestured to the cart beside me, the neat stacks of folded sheets and towels like proof of my right to exist in this room. "I didn't see any schedule change, so I assumed-"

She cut me off with a glance. Not at my face-at my wrist.

"You are not assigned here anymore."

"I... don't understand." My gaze followed hers to the insignia, suddenly unsure what it meant, "When did this happen?"

"Order from higher authority," she said, voice flat. "That is the extent of what I have. Your status is revised."

Her expression didn't flicker, but there was a tautness to the silence between us, as if we were both aware of something unspoken and dangerous pressing at its edges.

"There are no duties for you here."

I swallowed, the words thick in my mouth. "So what am I... assigned to?" The question felt clumsy, almost childish. "Do I report somewhere else?"

I glanced at the cart, at the neat stacks I'd made like they had the authority I suddenly lacked. "There's been no notice."

"You are not to report to any unit at this time. Return to your quarters and stand by for directives."

I nodded because I couldn't think of anything else to do. My arms hung limp at my sides, the starch scent of the linens clinging to my clothes.

Her hand lifted toward the collar communicator, touched the edge, then lowered. "Leave the cart." She stepped aside just enough to indicate the corridor. "You are released."

And as I walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone had started treating me like a grenade with the pin half-pulled.

I returned to my room, the small, dimly lit space that had become my sanctuary.

I sat at the edge of the narrow cot, my spine too straight, my hands curled into themselves like they didn't trust the air around them.I felt... unmoored. Like someone had cut the tether and forgotten to tell me where the ship was going.

I needed to move. To do something-anything-before the quiet carved me open from the inside.

So I cleaned.

It was stupid. Pointless, maybe. The room wasn't even dirty. But I cleaned it anyway, methodically, like the act alone might build me a scaffolding to stand on. I scrubbed the corners of the floor with shaking fingers. Wiped down the already-sterile surfaces. Folded and refolded the few sets of issued clothing I owned until they sat in perfect lines, silent and obedient in the drawer.

The repetition helped. Not enough to chase the thoughts away, but enough to blur their edges.

When there was nothing left to tidy, I finally allowed myself to sit. My body ached, not from effort, but from tension-drawn tight like a wire stretched too far. I slipped on my headphones with trembling hands and cued up one of the old tracks I'd saved from Earth. A soft melody filled my ears, something with a piano that I had always found comfort in.

It hit me then-how quiet this place truly was. Not just in sound, but in memory. No birdsong, no breeze through half-open windows, no distant laughter bleeding through paper-thin walls.

Just metal and silence and a sky that never shifted.

Still, for a few minutes, the music gave me an illusion.

Not really peace. But distance.

And I clung to it like a lifeline.

I don't remember falling asleep. Just the gentle ache behind my eyes and the way the song looped once, twice-and then nothing.

It was the first time in days that I had slept soundly, without nightmares.

When I opened my eyes, the music had stopped, the room was dark. My mind was still fogged from sleep, I reached for my headphones-only to find them not on my head, but resting neatly on the side table beside the tablet, the cord coiled with deliberate care.

I froze.

Someone had taken them off me.

No-he had.

My stomach went cold.

He'd been here. Close enough to take them off without waking me. Close enough to lean over my face, to stand there and watch the rise and fall of my breathing, and I hadn't felt it. Hadn't even stirred.

The thought snapped something tight inside me. My pulse pounded hot in my ears from anger. How dare he come into my room. How dare he touch anything. How dare he... watch.

The words rose in my throat, sharp and ready. This is not acceptable. You do not-

But the rest of the sentence dissolved before it reached my lips. I could almost see his eyes in my mind, that flat, unblinking stillness that made you feel like you were already halfway trapped. I knew exactly how he would look at me if I spoke. And I knew what it would mean.

Because the truth was, I was a coward. Or maybe just sensible. People didn't confront Admiral. Not unless they wanted to learn how short a human life could be out here.

That was when I noticed the guava, Resting beside the headphones.

Again.

Of course.

Of course he did.

I let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh and pressed my palm to my face. I've never told anyone here that I like guava. Not once. How the hell do you know that, Admiral? What file did you open?

What conversation did you mine that I never had? Who did you station inside me to map my edges?

I like guava. Always have. But on this ship, real fruit isn't just rare-it's almost impossible. Resources are rationed to the gram.

Most of us live on reconstituted protein bars and nutrient paste, engineered to keep us alive, not happy. Fresh food is something you dream about, not something you hold in your hand.

So where did he get it?

The thought tightened in my chest. If this came from the Admiral, it meant he'd gone out of his way to find it. And if he could get this, what else could he get? What else could he take?

It wasn't a gift. Not really. It was proof of reach, of privilege, of a kind of power I couldn't touch.

And still, because I'm a mess of bad instincts,a part of me noticed.

That he'd discovered God knows from where this small, irrelevant thing about me and then bent the impossible to put it in my hands.

I decided to venture out. Staying confined in my quarters was making me restless, stir-crazy. I needed to... do something.

I headed for the mess hall, grateful for the noise. The hum of a hundred small lives rubbing against each other. After the silence of my room, even the clatter felt like mercy.

It lasted three seconds.

The sound didn't vanish completely, but it thinned, frayed around the edges. Conversations stumbled mid-word. Heads lifted. Eyes tracked.

Some of the looks came quick and sharp glances that slipped away as soon as I caught them. Others lingered, heavy and deliberate, like a weight on my skin.

I saw the curl of lips that might have once been smiles, the narrowing of eyes, the way someone's posture stiffened just enough to be a statement.

I could feel the heat of their scrutiny on my skin, a phantom burn that was almost worse than the faint, golden glow of the insignia on my wrist.

His mark.

A pair of Zypherians at the nearest table turned their heads, watching me with that quiet, assessing stillness they were known for.

I kept my gaze low, focused on filling a tray with the usual nutrient paste. The food was flavorless, sustaining at best-but that wasn't the point. This was survival.

I turned, scanning for an empty table.

One tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as though fitting me into a mental category.

My presence changed the shape of things now, like a drop of oil in water.

I could feel the eyes on me, the whispers following me.

"Wonder what she traded for that glow on her wrist."

"She doesn't even look special. Why would he-"

"No, it's simpler than that. He's bored. And she's... convenient."

"Guess all it takes is the right pair of eyes looking your way."

I spotted a table tucked in the far corner, slid into the seat, and set the tray down. The paste was already cooling. I took the spoon like it could be a shield if I used it right.

Keep the head low. Count heartbeats. Pretend to eat. Breathe without sounding like you're trying.

And then-

He entered.

The insignia on my wrist pulsed faintly in his presence.

Conversations died completely, frozen in throats. Every head turned-human, Zypherian, it didn't matter. The hierarchy bent in his direction instinctively.

He moved with the restrained elegance of something coiled-a creature accustomed to watching, waiting, dominating without declaration.

A hundred eyes tracked him as he moved toward the nutrient dispensers.

I kept my head down and still felt his presence find me. You don't have to look at a star to know where it is; your bones will tell you.

He never ate here.

Not in the Level 3 cafeteria.

Only once-months ago-he walked past my table where I sat with Noah.

The sector's Level 3 mess hall was mostly human territory. A handful of Zypherians eat here. What happened in the other sector's mess halls, or on the higher levels, I didn't know. But here? This was unusual.

When he turned, tray in hand, I already knew what he would do.

I already feared it.

He didn't hesitate.

He walked toward me.

Not toward another Zypherian.

Not toward the table where the few of his kind were eating.

Toward me.

Toward this table.

He reached the table, stood before me, and-for a single, heart-shattering second-just looked.

Then he sat.

Graceful. Deliberate. Like he'd claimed something.

And my hands... trembled.

It wasn't just the burn of eyes across the room, or the brittle tension that thrummed in the walls. It wasn't just shame, or fear, or the heat climbing my throat in a choking flush.

It was him.

His presence wasn't just overwhelming-it was absolute. Like gravity around a collapsing star. Like the edges of the universe had bent around him and dragged me with them.

My body acted before my mind caught up.

I stood.

Fast. Sharp. The chair scraped back with a screeching sound that echoed far too loudly in the stillness. My tray wobbled, nearly tipping.

His gaze followed me up, head tilting minutely. The movement was almost reptilian-too still, too precise.

I felt his eyes like heat. Like questions honed to a blade.

I couldn't breathe.

"Is the seat... unsuitable?" he asked, voice even, weighty.

Like he didn't understand.

Or worse-like he did, and he wanted me to say it aloud.

No. You and me at a table is

Silence stretched.

His gaze didn't shift.

"Will you remain standing?"

I swallowed hard. "No," I managed, voice frayed and cracking. "I just-"

I just what? Needed to run? To survive this? To be anywhere but here?

My gaze dropped to my tray, to the untouched food. I couldn't force myself to sit again. Not with him watching me like I was something fragile and dangerous all at once.

He didn't move. He was not a man performing silence; he was a creature for whom silence was a native climate. He watched the way weather longs a horizon, as if the shape of what would happen next lived in the angle of my throat.

Behind the calm exterior was a creature not accustomed to rejection, to unpredictability.

To fragility that stood upright, trembling, and refused to bend.

I took a breath. Then another.

And slowly-deliberately-I sat back down.

He lifted his spoon with elegant precision and tasted the nutrient paste. His expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked to me, measuring.

"You are not eating," he observed.

Of course I'm not eating, you gilded nightmare. I moved like a puppet made with decent intentions, scooped, swallowed. It tasted like ash.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. As if I'd passed a test I hadn't been aware of.

A strange silence settled between us. Not uncomfortable. Not entirely.

We ate.

He didn't speak again, and part of me hoped he wouldn't. That he'd just sit there, finish his food, and leave-vanish

I wasn't sure how long we sat like that-minutes? Hours? Time blurred around him.

But then his voice cut through the silence.

"I will be gone for three cycles."

I blinked.

My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.

"Okay." It escaped like a reflex; too quick, too naked.

He inclined his head slightly. "I've been assigned a temporary oversight of Theta. There are... inefficiencies."

Ah. A mission. Of course. I nodded like that made sense-even though I didn't know what Theta was, or what kind of inefficiencies demanded him.

I chewed slowly, buying myself time. Why is he telling me this?

I set my spoon down, unsure what to say. "Is it dangerous?" I asked quietly.

He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, steady-like a vow, not a report. "Everything worth doing is dangerous. And this... is worth doing."

"Dangerous", I muttered, mostly to myself. "So is breathing near you."

We ate in silence for a while. A long one.

And then, without looking at me, without a word, he reached into a pouch on his belt and placed a small black box between us. Smooth. Unmarked.

I stared at it.

It wasn't large, but it was deliberate. Too deliberate.

His fingers withdrew slowly, and I saw the smallest flicker of discomfort-awkwardness, maybe in his posture. As if this gesture, this offering, didn't fit into the clean, hierarchical language of the Zypherian military. As if he had made a decision without knowing the custom of it.

"A salve," he said simply. "For the injury."

My eyes darted to him. Confused.

"Injury?" I repeated, voice low.

He gestured with a minimal nod. "Your wrist."

I blinked. "What?"

He nodded once toward my right hand, the one I'd been unconsciously keeping close, curled slightly inward against the tray's edge.

"It appeared swollen when you were asleep."

I looked down at my wrist, faintly swollen from the flare. The ache had dulled to a throb. It wasn't serious, not yet. I could manage. I always managed.

"You appeared... pained," he continued, voice softer now. Hesitant. "Is this injury... recent?"

I curled the hand further out of sight, heart thudding in my throat.

I didn't answer.

My throat clenched tight.

I didn't want to talk about it. Not with him. Especially not with him.

What would I even say? It's not an injury. It's my immune system, Admiral. It turns its teeth inward sometimes. It's unpredictable and makes me weak. It makes me human.

Do Zypherians even have autoimmune conditions?

Do their cells ever mistake themselves for enemies? Do their bodies ever turn inward and burn? Could they imagine it?

Instead, I just returned my gaze to my tray, forcing another bite down. It lodged in my throat like chalk.

He seemed to take my silence as... something. I couldn't read him.

I didn't touch the container.

Something twisted in my stomach, sharp and disorienting. Not from the food.

I didn't know what to feel.

And it terrified me.

I couldn't even look at him. I just stared at the box like it was a grenade, like opening it would shatter something in me I couldn't rebuild.

A command, I would've swallowed and complied with. A threat, I could've braced against. But this-this quiet, clumsy offering-unmade my armor in places I didn't know were seams. I didn't know what to do with his attention. With his awkward, alien version of concern.

It rattled me. Made me feel... loose at the joints. Like I was a structure held together by habit, and one kind gesture could take out the wrong beam.

It made me want to recoil.

It made me want to cry.

Worse, it made me want to be gentler with myself in front of this bastard Admiral.

I hated that last part like a fresh bruise.

I kept my eyes on the box until looking at it hurt.

Don't soften.

Don't you dare soften.

He is not safe.

Then I edged it back across the table with the corner of my tray.

"I don't need it," I said, my voice quiet, but steady. My eyes didn't meet his.