Darkness.

Not the kind you close your eyes into — deeper. Thicker.

Something hums. Not loud. But it’s there, behind the silence, like a machine that never sleeps.

Then — movement.

A low groan ripples through the walls. The floor tilts beneath me.

Metal shrieks. Gravity doesn’t know where to go. A sharp jolt throws me sideways — the cot slams into the wall with a screech of cold steel on steel.

A voice crackles through the ceiling.

“Welcome back, No. 6.”

I grit my teeth and push myself up, heart hammering in my chest. The walls shift, the floor bucks like a wild animal. I’m spinning, unsteady, like I’m trapped inside a storm that won’t stop.

“No. 6? What’s that...?” I whisper to myself, the word strange in my mouth.

The lights flicker, stutter, then hold — just long enough for me to see cracks spreading across the walls.

A sharp beep cuts through the hum, a warning that dies almost as soon as it starts.

And then I see it — flashing on the terminal screen:

========== ERROR ============
Emergency Override Engaged

Return to the main cabin

I stare at the screen, the words burning into my mind like a command and a question all at once. Return to the main cabin. But where is the main cabin? And why did I wake up alone in this hell?

My head pounds, every movement sending jolts through my bones. I force myself to stand fully, legs shaky beneath me. The room tilts again, just slightly this time, but enough to remind me that whatever’s happening isn’t over.

I glance around, searching for any sign of a door, a hatch, something—anything that could lead me out. The walls hum and groan as if the whole station is fighting against its own collapse.

“Main cabin…” I whisper, trying to remember if I’ve heard that before, but my mind is a blank slate. A cold sweat drips down my neck.

The terminal blinks again. No new messages. Just that same command.

With no better choice, I take a deep breath and step towards the panel,my fingers brushing the cracked edges of the room. I need to move.

I take a shaky step forward, then another. The floor feels unsteady beneath me, like it might give way at any second. Suddenly, my foot catches on something—maybe a loose panel—and I stumble hard, crashing to the ground. Pain shoots through my arm, but I force myself up again, gritting my teeth.

My fingers trail along the wall, searching. Then, I find it—a door. Cold metal, scarred and worn, but intact. I press my palm against the panel next to it, and with a hiss, it slides open.

Blinding light floods the room beyond. I shield my eyes, stepping inside cautiously.

After a moment, the harsh glow softens. I blink several times and look around. The room is small, filled with panels and screens — but then my gaze shifts to a window.

Outside, endless blackness stretches in all directions. Specks of light twinkle far away—stars. We're in space.

I move toward the largest screen in the room, my steps echoing softly in the silence. The panels flicker weakly, struggling to stay alive. I reach out, fingers hovering over the controls, hesitant, then press a button.

The screen bursts to life, displaying a star map and a trajectory line tracing the path of the ship.

My breath catches. The ship is heading straight toward a dying star — a massive, swollen sun burning itself out, shedding flares that crackle like distant thunder. The path leads right into its scorching heat.

I stare, heart pounding, trying to make sense of it. Why is the station—or ship—heading there? Was it deliberate? A last resort? Or a trap?

The hum around me deepens, and somewhere deep in the station, an ominous groan reminds me time isn’t on my side.

The ship shudders violently, a roar filling every inch of the hull. Through the cracked window, the dying star looms larger—a massive ball of fire, wild and unforgiving. I know what’s coming. There’s no time left.

The panels flash red. Warning lights blaze like a storm of angry fireflies. I’m thrown to the floor as the hull cracks, sparks flying like shooting stars around me.

Amidst the chaos, a flicker on the console catches my eye—a single file blinking insistently: ARKVEIL.LOG. Gritting my teeth, I crawl toward it, each movement sharper than the last.

I open the file.

Lines of data scroll past—coordinates, cryptic notes, timestamps—but one message stands out, urgent and clear:

"ArkVeil was never about survival. It was about control — a secret experiment hidden from the world."

The ship convulses again, metal groaning like it’s tearing apart. I clutch the console, whispering the word through cracked lips.

“ArkVeil…”

A blinding heat floods the cabin, swallowing all light and sound.

And then—silence.