Thump.
ThumP.
ThuMP.
THUMP.
Soren opened his eyes.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was.
The sound arrived first—not sharp, not loud, but rhythmic enough to pull him upward from sleep. It echoed faintly through his chest rather than his ears, a vibration more than a noise. His breathing lagged behind the realization, shallow and slow, as though his body hadn't yet decided whether waking was necessary.
He stared at the ceiling.
The panels above him were darker than before, their seams softened by low-cycle lighting. The glow that usually filtered in through the viewport was dimmer too, muted to a deep slate-blue that told him, without numbers or alarms, that time had moved on without him.
He had fallen asleep.
The realization came with a faint flicker of surprise—not alarm, not regret. Just acknowledgment. He let the moment settle, his gaze drifting until it found the narrow strip of sky visible through the viewport.
It was much darker now.
Not night, exactly—there was no true night here—but the sky had deepened into something heavier, denser. The thin cloud currents he'd watched earlier were gone, replaced by a broad, uninterrupted stretch of darkness broken only by faint atmospheric shimmer. The Aurelius cut through it smoothly, her presence implied rather than seen.
Soren turned his head slightly and looked toward the slate on the bedside table.
The display lit softly as it registered his movement.
8:37.
He stared at the number longer than necessary.
Dinner hours, then—past the peak of it, when the mess would have been busiest. Not late enough for the ship to feel quiet, but late enough that the rhythm had shifted. Crew cycles overlapping. Tasks folding into one another. The day settling into its second half.
He exhaled slowly.
His thoughts felt… clearer.
Not sharp, not quick—but no longer lagging the way they had earlier. The heaviness behind his eyes had thinned into something manageable, the dull pressure replaced by a more even awareness. There was still a faint delay when he tried to focus too quickly, like his mind needed an extra beat to catch up, but it no longer felt disorienting.
The wind brushed faintly along the wall.
Soren noticed it immediately.
Not because it was strong—it wasn't—but because it moved through the room with the same familiarity it always had, slipping along panel seams, settling briefly near the floor before dissipating. The air carried that same cool edge from earlier, though less sharp now, less insistent.
The hum was there too.
Steady.
Persistent.
Or—
He frowned faintly.
Was it louder?
The thought surfaced uninvited, lingering just long enough to be noticed before he shook it off. The hum hadn't changed. Not meaningfully. It only felt more present because he was listening for it.
You're awake now, he told himself. That's all.
He rolled onto his side, then pushed himself upright into a sitting position. The movement was careful, habitual, his body still remembering the limits it had been working around all day.
He paused there, elbows resting lightly on his knees.
What was he doing?
The question wasn't sharp. It didn't accuse. It simply existed, hanging in the space between one breath and the next.
He had rested. He had listened. He had noticed things—but had he recorded enough? Had he done enough? The word anomalies surfaced again, uncomfortable and vague, refusing to settle into anything concrete.
And yet—
Soren inhaled and straightened.
He stood.
His ankle responded—but differently than before.
There was no sharp twinge, no immediate warning flare. Just a muted stiffness that eased as he shifted his weight, testing it once, then again. The joint felt steadier, more cooperative, as though the rest had done what Atticus had hoped it would.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
Almost too faint to count.
"Well," he murmured under his breath, more to himself than anything else.
He turned toward the washroom and stepped inside, the light adjusting automatically as he crossed the threshold. The sink activated with a soft chime, and he leaned forward, bracing himself lightly on the counter as cool water streamed over his hands.
He cupped it and splashed his face once.
Then again.
The chill bit briefly, sharp enough to clear the last remnants of sleep from his senses. He straightened, blinking, watching droplets trail down the basin and disappear into the drain.
Awake now.
He reached for his ledger before leaving the room, tucking it under his arm out of habit. The weight of it was familiar, grounding—a reminder that even when he didn't know what to write, the act of carrying it mattered.
When he opened the door to his quarters, the wind rushed in.
It startled him.
Not violently—but enough that he took an instinctive step back as cool air swept across his face and chest, breaking the contained warmth of the room. The door slid shut behind him a moment later, the gust settling almost immediately, as if it had only needed to announce itself.
Soren frowned slightly.
The wind felt… different.
Not harsher. If anything, it was more playful—lighter, quicker in the way it moved along the corridor, brushing past him in brief, darting currents before slipping away. The temperature was colder than earlier, noticeably so, but the movement carried an energy that hadn't been there in the afternoon.
He pulled his coat a little closer around himself and started down the corridor.
His steps echoed softly against the floor panels, each footfall steady, measured. The hum followed beneath it all, unchanged in rhythm if not in presence. The ship felt awake in a different way now—less focused, more diffuse.
As he approached the junction that led toward the upper deck, he heard it.
Footsteps.
Not hurried. Not light.
Grounded. Even. Low.
Soren slowed before he consciously realized he had.
He turned his head just as Atticus came into view, stepping into the corridor with the same unhurried precision he always carried. The captain's posture was relaxed, coat unfastened, expression neutral but alert in the way that suggested he was never entirely off-duty.
They stopped a few paces apart.
"Soren," Atticus said, voice warm with recognition.
"Captain," Soren replied automatically with a slight head tilt.
Atticus's gaze swept over him in a single, unobtrusive pass. Not scrutinizing—but assessing. Taking in posture, steadiness, the absence of strain.
"You look better," he said.
Soren nodded once. "I feel better."
A pause.
Atticus's expression shifted—not dramatically, just enough to register approval. "Good."
They fell into step together without comment, their paths aligning naturally as they turned toward the mess. Atticus adjusted his pace almost imperceptibly, slowing just enough that Soren didn't have to compensate.
It wasn't pointed out.
It wasn't emphasized.
It simply happened.
"Heading to eat?" Atticus asked.
"Yes," Soren said. "I… lost track of time."
"It happens," Atticus replied easily. "Especially today."
The mess doors slid open ahead of them, light spilling out into the corridor. Voices overlapped inside—not loud, but lively enough to mark the space as occupied. The warmth from within pushed back against the cold air, steady and inviting.
Atticus glanced sideways at Soren as they crossed the threshold.
"Sit with me?" he asked.
The phrasing was casual. Open. An invitation rather than a directive.
Soren hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Alright."
They entered together.
_________________________
The mess received them with a softened hush.
Not quiet—never quiet—but settled, like a room that had already exhaled. The air here felt thicker than the corridors, warmer by just enough that Soren noticed the difference immediately as it pressed gently against his skin. The playful edge the wind had carried outside dulled as soon as they crossed the threshold, movement smoothing into something slower, heavier, more contained.
Under his boots, the floor felt solid. Anchored.
Not dancing. Not drifting.
Soren hadn't realized how much he'd been compensating for the cold until it eased.
Atticus didn't comment on it. He simply continued forward, their strides aligning naturally as they moved toward the counter. The mess was still active—crew scattered across tables in small clusters, voices overlapping in low conversation—but the sharpness of peak hours had passed. Trays were stacked neatly. Some tables had already been cleared. Others were half-occupied, meals midway through, people lingering rather than rushing.
Darrick stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had already handled the worst of the rush.
"Captain," he greeted easily as Atticus approached.
"Darrick," Atticus replied with a nod.
Darrick's gaze shifted to Soren and softened into something familiar. "Hey. Your walk's looking better!"
"Seems like it," Soren said, faintly amused.
"Good," Darrick said. "About time."
He reached down and released the seal on the warming unit, the lid lifting with a soft hiss. "We've got three platters left. Nothing heavy. Figured tonight wasn't the night."
Soren leaned forward slightly to look.
Steam curled upward, carrying muted scents—grains, vegetables, something lightly spiced but restrained. Comfort food, but careful. Sustaining without being indulgent.
Atticus took a tray without comment and selected a portion with an efficiency that suggested habit more than hunger. He didn't linger over choices, didn't hesitate—just enough for the meal to serve its purpose.
Soren followed suit, mirroring the motion without consciously meaning to.
He paused halfway through.
Not because of the food itself—but because he noticed how Atticus moved. The measured pace. The way his hand hovered for just a fraction of a second before committing, as though even here, even now, he was calibrating.
Soren's mind tried to reach for something—some pattern, some conclusion—but it slipped away before it could take shape.
He dismissed it and finished assembling his tray.
"Light's good tonight," Darrick remarked, sealing the unit again. "Ship's been… busy."
"Has it?" Soren asked mildly.
Darrick shrugged. "Feels like it."
No elaboration followed. None was needed.
They turned away from the counter and scanned the room. Atticus angled instinctively toward the outer seating—but before they reached it, he adjusted course slightly, veering toward the corner tables instead.
The warmer side.
It wasn't announced. Not discussed. Just done.
Soren followed without thinking, only realizing the difference when the heat settled more fully into his hands and chest. He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding and slid into the seat across from Atticus, setting his tray down carefully.
They ate in silence.
Not an awkward one. Not a strained one.
Just quiet.
The kind that settled naturally when neither person felt the need to fill it.
Soren paced himself unconsciously to Atticus's rhythm, noticing after a few minutes that the captain ate more slowly than he'd expected. Each bite measured. Each pause intentional, but unhurried. It grounded the space between them, anchoring Soren in the present moment without effort.
Then—
THUMP.
Soren stiffened.
The sensation arrived like a jolt behind his sternum, sharp enough that his head lifted before he could stop himself. His gaze swept the room instinctively—tables, ceiling, doorways.
Nothing.
No dropped tray. No shifted panel. No startled reaction from anyone nearby.
The mess continued exactly as it had been.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Soren lowered his gaze, shoulders easing only after deliberate effort.
Across from him, Atticus had paused mid-motion.
Not frozen—but attentive.
"Did you hear something?" he asked.
The tone was gentle. Curious. Not alarmed.
Soren hesitated.
The truth pressed at him—not urgent, not panicked, but insistent. His heart still raced faintly, the echo of the thump lingering just long enough to make him doubt himself.
He shook his head once. "No. I… misheard."
Atticus watched him for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Then he nodded.
No prying. No follow-up.
They returned to their meals.
But Soren's heartbeat took longer to settle this time, the rhythm slowing in stages rather than all at once. He forced himself to keep eating, matching Atticus's pace again, letting the familiarity of the motion ground him.
When they finished, Atticus rose first and reached for both trays without comment.
"I've got it," he said, already turning toward the counter.
Soren didn't argue.
He followed more slowly, ankle steady enough now that the movement felt natural rather than cautious. At the counter, Atticus stacked the trays neatly, hands efficient, then paused with one palm resting lightly against the edge.
"Soren," he said.
The name carried weight—not command, not concern. Just presence.
"Yes?"
Atticus turned to face him fully then, expression open in a way Soren didn't see often. "You don't have to carry everything quietly."
Soren blinked.
"I know you do," Atticus continued. "Because it's how you work. But you don't have to."
A pause.
"This ship doesn't need you to be alone to function."
The words landed softly—but they landed.
Soren swallowed. "I don't feel… certain enough to bring things forward."
Atticus nodded once. "You don't have to be."
That earned him a glance.
"If something feels off," Atticus said, calm and steady, "that's enough to tell me. We sort the certainty out together."
The space between them shifted—subtly, but undeniably.
After a moment, Atticus stepped back. "I should get back."
He steps paused—just briefly—then added, "Come find me if anything happens."
Soren's heart skipped.
Then settled.
"I will," he said quietly, lingering.
Atticus gave a small nod and turned away, his footsteps receding into the hum of the ship as he disappeared beyond the mess doors.
Soren remained.
Just for a while.
_________________________
Soren stayed longer than he meant to.
The mess gradually thinned around him—not abruptly, not all at once, but in small increments. Chairs scraped softly as people stood. Trays were collected and stacked. Conversations tapered into quieter exchanges, then dispersed into the corridors beyond. The warmth lingered even as the space emptied, held in the walls and floor, a gentle counterpoint to the cold he knew waited outside.
He sat with his hands folded loosely around the edge of the table, ledger resting beside him, untouched.
Atticus's words replayed—not sharply, not insistently. Just there. Settled.
We sort the certainty out together.
Soren exhaled.
After a while, he stood.
His ankle held without protest, the movement smooth enough that he barely noticed it anymore. That, in itself, felt like a small victory. He collected his ledger, nodded once toward Darrick on his way out, and stepped back into the corridor.
The cold met him immediately.
Not aggressive—but unmistakable.
The wind moved through the passageway with more intent now, slipping along the ceiling panels and down the walls in longer, faster currents. It brushed past his coat with a low, rushing sound, like breath released too quickly. The warmth of the mess fell away behind him, replaced by a sharper chill that raised gooseflesh along his arms.
He pulled his coat closer, instinctive.
The hum beneath his feet felt stronger here—denser, louder, as though the ship were pressing forward against resistance rather than gliding through it. The sound vibrated up through the soles of his boots, through bone and muscle, settling deeper than before.
Soren walked.
He passed the junction that led toward his quarters.
Slowed.
Then stopped.
The stairwell to the lower decks opened beside him, its descent marked by a change in acoustics—the hum thickening, echoing faintly against deeper structural supports. Cooler air pooled there, heavier, carrying a metallic edge that made his breath catch slightly as he stood at the threshold.
He hesitated.
Not because he intended to go down.
Because he wanted to feel.
He stepped closer and placed his palm against the wall panel beside the stairs.
The vibration met him instantly.
Strong. Loud. Immediate.
It wasn't subtle here. The ship's internal rhythm pressed firmly against his hand, pulsing in layered frequencies that blurred together into something almost physical. The sensation climbed his arm, settled behind his ribs.
Then—
Creak.
The sound wasn't loud.
It didn't echo down the corridor or draw attention.
But it resounded in his head.
Sharp. Internal. Too close.
Soren flinched and pulled his hand away at once, heart jumping before he could stop it. He shook his head, a quick, sharp motion, as though to dislodge the feeling before it could root itself.
"No," he murmured under his breath.
Not denial.
Boundary.
He stepped back from the stairwell and turned away, forcing his feet to move before his thoughts could catch up. The corridor ahead curved toward another access point—one he knew well.
The exterior hull.
He didn't consciously decide.
His body simply angled that way, pulled by something he couldn't name. A sense that whatever he'd been listening for earlier—whatever rhythm had brushed against him and retreated—might be clearer out there, where the ship's skin met open air.
The door open.
The wind hit him full-on.
It whooshed past, hard and cold, tearing heat from his skin in an instant. The difference was so abrupt it stole his breath for half a second, forcing a sharp inhale as he stepped through the threshold. The gust surged along the hull plating, curling around railings and seams with a low, rushing sound that drowned out everything else.
Soren staggered one step, then caught himself.
Cold.
This was colder than earlier. Not just in temperature, but in intent. The wind didn't drift now—it moved, fast and insistent, pressing against him from multiple angles as though testing his balance. It slipped under his coat, around his collar, along his wrists, raising a sharp chill that bit straight through fabric.
He frowned and tightened his grip on the rail. Was there mentions of increase wind intensity?
The sky above was darker still, deepened into a heavy, near-black expanse broken only by faint atmospheric shimmer. The Aurelius cut through it steadily, her vast body outlined in intermittent reflections from the work lights scattered along the hull.
And there were more of them.
More lights. More movement.
More crew.
Soren blinked, scanning the area.
There were at least twice as many people out here as he'd seen earlier that day. Some clustered near open panels, others moving carefully along secured paths, tethers clipped and re-clipped with practiced ease. Voices carried faintly over the wind—not raised, but purposeful.
He spotted a familiar figure almost immediately.
The technician who'd left the aerostatic control passage hatch unsecured the previous night—the one Liora had reprimanded sharply. He was working now near a circular access point set low along the hull, posture rigid with focus. Nearby, two other crew members assisted, one braced against the plating while the other adjusted a handheld tool that glowed faintly blue.
And—
"Nell?"
She turned at once.
"Hey!" she called, raising her voice just enough to carry over the wind. She moved toward him, careful but quick, boots striking the hull with practiced confidence. "You're feeling better?"
Her gaze flicked immediately to his ankle, concern automatic.
"Yes," Soren said, returning the smile. "Much better."
"That's good," she said, relief evident. Up close, he could see the faint shadows beneath her eyes now, the telltale signs of extended duty cycles. She looked tired—but alert.
He glanced around again. "There seems to be more crew activity than usual."
Nell nodded. "Yeah. We're trying to fix the latch at the bottom."
"The latch?" Soren echoed.
She gestured toward the circular access point. "That one. The outer hatch connecting to the aero controls. It's not sealing properly."
Soren stepped closer to the rail, bracing himself against another gust of wind as he leaned forward to look. Below them, the hull curved away sharply into open air, the maintenance team suspended along secured lines, bodies silhouetted against the faint glow of work lights.
He recognized Carden among them.
"They think the latch being loose might be affecting our course," Nell continued. "Nothing dramatic—but enough to cause minor deviations. The navigation system compensated automatically, but it flagged inconsistencies."
Deviation.
Soren's grip tightened slightly on the rail. "How much?"
"Fractional," Nell said. "Barely measurable unless you're looking for it. But it kept happening."
"Compounding," Soren murmured before he could stop himself.
Nell glanced at him. "Yeah. Exactly."
The wind surged again, colder than before, a sharp whoosh that cut straight through him. Soren shivered this time, unable to suppress it.
Nell noticed immediately. "You okay?"
"Yes," he said quickly. "Just—cold."
"I don't blame you," she said. "It picked up hard about an hour ago. Didn't like it much myself."
Soren nodded, eyes still on the crew below. "How long have they been at it?"
"Since before dinner," Nell replied. "They thought they had it earlier, but the seal kept… slipping. Micro-adjustments weren't holding."
"Is that common?" he asked.
She hesitated. "Not really."
The answer hung between them.
He glanced at her again. "Are you alright?"
Nell smiled—smaller this time, but genuine. "I will be. Just one of those days."
He nodded, understanding more than she said.
Another gust tore across the hull, stronger than the last, forcing him to brace more firmly. The cold bit deeper now, sharp enough that it overrode whatever instinct had brought him out here in the first place.
This wasn't a place to linger.
Not tonight.
He straightened slowly and stepped back from the rail. As he did, his gaze drifted along the hull toward the northward curve—the cut-off section that led toward the officer areas.
Something moved there.
Soren narrowed his eyes.
A figure emerged from the shadows, walking with measured confidence along the exterior path. The uniform caught the light briefly—officer grade. The posture was unmistakable.
Too familiar.
His chest tightened.
It was the same build. The same gait. The same indistinct familiarity that had unsettled him outside his quarters before—where no officer should have been.
The figure moved toward the southern section.
Toward this area.
Soren's breath fogged faintly in the cold air as he watched, heart ticking faster with each step the figure took. The wind howled again, loud enough now to drown out smaller sounds, whipping around him with sharp insistence.
He made a decision.
Soren turned away.
"Stay warm," Nell called after him as he moved toward the access door.
"I will," he replied, already reaching for the panel.
The door sealed behind him with a solid thrum, cutting off the wind in an instant.
The sudden warmth made him sway slightly.
The hum enveloped him again, steadier, familiar.
THUMP
The sound echoed faintly as he took his first step back inside.
Soren didn't look back.
He headed toward his quarters.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
He would leave it for tomorrow.
_________________________