The walls were breathing again.
Not literally—not yet—but Mira Yen knew what to look for.
The subtle give of the metal under her palm. The sigh of recycled air systems slowing just slightly when she turned her back. The smell of heat without a source.
This wasn't how it started.
It started with the notes.
The first note was tucked into the page of her field journal.She hadn't written in it yet.
"Don't tell Elise. She won't believe you this time."– M
Neat handwriting. Slanted left. Her signature initial.
She had no memory of writing it.
The second note was stranger. Pinned to the wall inside her bunk.
"You've been awake for 29 hours. Take the shot. Sleep now. The dreams are better than the corridor."
Different handwriting. Still signed "M."
She hadn't slept in 18 hours—but the note was right about that.
She took the stim.
Dreams flooded her.
In the Dream:
She was walking down a hallway made of teeth.
Not just lined with them—made of them. Bones wrapped in metal, pulsating in rhythm with her steps.
Someone walked beside her.
She never turned to look.
But he whispered:
"You knew this was a memory before it began."
She replied:
"Whose?"
"Yours. But not yours alone."
She woke up with a note pressed to her chest.
Written in her own handwriting, but this time frantic. Disjointed. Letters bleeding off the edges of the page.
"You talked to him again. Stop that. That version of you never made it to Chapter 11. Please. Please listen. He's using our voice."
She sat up in bed. Cold sweat.
The ship had changed again.
Her bunk was no longer where it had been. The lights were dimmer. Her boots were dry—even though she'd gone to sleep with wet soles.
She checked her bodycam log.
The timestamp read:
08:17:0308:17:0308:17:03
No time passed.
Or maybe too much had.
She stood, heart racing, and pressed her hand to the wall. The familiar pulse was still there—like a living thing.
Something is watching us through the ship itself.
Then she heard it.
A faint whisper, through the vents. At first, just static.
Then a voice:
"Mira. You left the room."
She turned slowly.
The room was empty.
But her reflection—caught in the steel cabinet door—was smiling.
She wasn't.