The interior of the artifact did not obey geometry.
What should have been a descending tunnel opened into a vast chamber wider than the ship itself. There was no sense of scale—no shadows, no echoes. The space refused to confirm its own shape.
Our boots made no sound. Our instruments gave no data. Lyra held her scanner like a crucifix, clutching it against her chest.
"We're walking on nothing," Nolan said. "Just light pretending to be surface."
Keene murmured equations under his breath. "It's not time dilation. It's compression."
I stepped forward and found myself alone. The others were gone. My comms buzzed with static that formed words:
"You were always here."
Then, just as quickly, I was back. The others hadn't noticed I'd vanished. Or maybe I never had.
Ishikawa's voice crackled through the feed: "Continue forward. Mark your path. And don't trust your eyes."
But it wasn't my eyes I stopped trusting.
It was my memory.