Soren did not sleep.
Not even in fragments.
He lay on his back for most of the cycle, eyes open in the low light of his quarters, listening to the Aurelius move around him. The ship's hum never wavered, never shifted in pitch or intensity enough to suggest effort. It continued as it had all night—steady, even, almost considerate.
His body, on the other hand, refused to follow.
Each time he closed his eyes, awareness stayed close to the surface. Muscles loosened without fully releasing. Thoughts drifted without resolving into dreams. Time stretched thin, elastic, the minutes indistinguishable from one another except by the subtle changes in light as the ship's internal cycle progressed.
By the time he accepted that rest was not coming, the air in his quarters felt stale.
Not unpleasant. Just… used.
Soren rolled onto his side and sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. There was a faint pressure behind his eyes, not pain exactly, more like the afterimage of effort. His limbs felt heavy in a way that suggested fatigue rather than weakness, the kind that came from waiting too long for sleep that never arrived.
He stood, steadying himself with a hand on the desk for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
The warmth beneath his sternum was unchanged—muted, calm, uninterested in his discomfort. Whatever sensitivity he carried did not register this as danger.
That, more than anything, convinced him to move.
He dressed slowly, pulling on layers with deliberate care. The fabric felt rougher against his skin than usual, seams more noticeable, as if his nerves were slightly miscalibrated. He ignored the sensation and reached for his ledger out of habit, then hesitated.
Not yet.
He left it on the desk and stepped out into the corridor.
_________________________
The ship was quieter than it had been the previous morning, but not silent. Footsteps echoed occasionally from distant decks. A door sealed somewhere down the passage. The air carried a faint chill, subtle enough that someone well-rested might not have noticed.
Soren noticed.
He moved without destination at first, letting his steps find a rhythm that felt tolerable. The stairwell leading toward the exterior walkways drew him in—not consciously, but with the quiet insistence of a body that needed something it couldn't articulate.
Fresh air, perhaps.
Or simply different air.
The transition from enclosed corridor to open exposure was gradual. The Aurelius did not open itself suddenly to the sky; it eased the shift, narrowing the walls, thinning the ceiling until the world beyond began to assert itself. Soren stepped out onto the exterior passage and paused.
The sky was a vast, uninterrupted grey.
Not storm-dark. Not luminous. Just layers upon layers of cloud stretching outward, depth without contrast. The horizon was indistinct, the boundary between ship and sky softened by moisture in the air.
He took a breath.
The air was cooler here, carrying the faint metallic tang of altitude and engine heat dissipating into open space. It slid over his skin, raising a faint chill along his arms that felt, unexpectedly, welcome.
Soren rested his hands on the railing and closed his eyes.
The ship continued forward beneath him, lift steady, propulsion smooth. Wind brushed past in gentle currents, not enough to buffet, just enough to remind him that they were moving through a medium that could push back if it chose to.
A drop of water struck the back of his hand.
He opened his eyes.
Another followed, then another—small, cold impacts that left darkened spots on the metal rail. The air shifted, temperature dropping by a fraction as the clouds above released their weight.
Rain.
It began without warning, a sudden, even downpour that soaked through fabric faster than Soren anticipated. The droplets were fine but persistent, clinging rather than bouncing, sliding along the seams of his coat and gathering at the cuffs.
He stood there for a few seconds longer than was sensible, watching the water streak across the sky, listening to the change in sound as rain struck metal and glass.
This was the first rain since they had entered the corridor.
The realization carried no weight. It was simply a fact.
Cold seeped through his clothes, the chill sharpening into something that made his shoulders tense. Soren exhaled and stepped back inside, the door sealing behind him with a soft hiss that cut off the sound of rain abruptly.
The corridor felt warmer by comparison, the air still, enclosed.
Water dripped from the hem of his coat onto the floor, darkening the metal in irregular patterns. He pushed his wet hair back from his face and started toward his quarters, boots leaving faint prints behind him that faded quickly as the ship's systems compensated.
By the time he reached his room, his clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin.
He stripped them off without ceremony, hanging them where the ship's environmental controls could dry them efficiently. The chill lingered, a persistent reminder of exposure rather than danger.
The shower took longer than usual.
Hot water sluiced over his shoulders, steam rising to fill the small space. Soren rested his forehead briefly against the cool tile, eyes closed, letting the heat work its way into muscles that hadn't realized how tense they were until now.
His thoughts drifted, unfocused.
The rain replayed in his mind—not dramatically, just as sensation. The cold. The suddenness. The way the sky had offered no warning, no buildup, no narrative arc.
When he finished, he dressed again in dry clothes and stood for a moment in the quiet of his quarters, gauging his body's response.
The heaviness remained.
Not worse. Not better.
Just present.
Soren retrieved his ledger and tucked it under his arm, then left his room once more.
The ship had resumed its low, even rhythm. Somewhere above, rain continued to fall, unremarkable in its persistence. The Aurelius moved through it without resistance, systems compensating smoothly, no alarms triggered, no course corrections required.
Everything functioned.
As he headed toward the upper deck, Soren felt a faint tightening in his chest—not the warmth he associated with the corridor, but a simpler sensation: the beginning of a chill that had settled deeper than his skin.
He dismissed it without effort.
People caught colds all the time.
Bodies faltered. Recovered. Continued.
There was nothing remarkable about it.
_________________________
The upper deck smelled faintly of damp metal.
Not strongly—just enough to register as a change, a subtle shift in the air that lingered near the stairwell where outside moisture had been tracked in and evaporated slowly under the Aurelius's environmental controls. Soren noticed it immediately as he emerged, the scent threading through the cooler air and settling somewhere at the back of his throat.
He paused near the edge of the helm space, ledger tucked beneath his arm.
Elion stood at her usual position, posture relaxed but attentive, one hand resting lightly on the rail as she watched the weather readouts scroll past. Everett was nearby, seated this time, tablet replaced with a stack of thin paper sheets held together by a brass clip. He glanced up as Soren approached, eyes lingering for a fraction of a second longer than usual.
"You're wet," Everett observed.
"I was," Soren replied. "Briefly."
Elion glanced over, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "First rain catches everyone off guard."
Soren nodded. "I underestimated it."
"That's what makes it rain," Elion said lightly. "It doesn't ask permission."
Cassian leaned against a console a few steps away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He looked less rigid than he had in earlier cycles, though the tension had not left him entirely—it had simply redistributed, settling deeper rather than easing outright.
"Conditions?" Soren asked, more out of habit than concern.
Everett shifted the papers in his hands. "Normal."
Cassian huffed softly. "Annoyingly so."
Elion tapped one of the displays, drawing Soren's attention to the data. "Precipitation levels are within standard atmospheric variance. No deviation from projected cloud density. No turbulence worth noting."
Soren studied the numbers, eyes tracing the steady lines. "Controlled?"
"Predictable," Everett corrected. "Which is not the same thing."
Cassian tilted his head. "It might as well be."
Atticus entered the space without announcement, his presence registering not through sound but through a subtle reorientation of attention. He stood near the center of the deck, gaze sweeping the displays before settling briefly on Soren.
"Status," he said.
Elion straightened slightly. "Rainfall only. No impact on navigation. Systems compensated automatically."
Atticus nodded. "Expected."
Soren shifted his weight, the movement slower than he intended. The floor adjusted beneath him immediately, smoothing out the imbalance before it could fully register.
"First rain since entry," he said.
"Yes," Atticus replied. "Which makes it notable, not significant."
Cassian's mouth twitched. "That's one way to put it."
Everett added, "Statistically, it was overdue."
Soren frowned faintly. "Overdue implies anticipation."
"Only in retrospect," Everett said. "The atmosphere doesn't experience delay."
Atticus's gaze lingered on Soren a moment longer. "You went outside."
"Yes."
"Alone."
"Yes."
"And returned."
Soren met his eyes. "As expected."
Atticus accepted that without comment. "Then there's nothing to record beyond baseline."
The word baseline settled over the group like a verdict.
Soren opened his ledger, thumbed to a blank page, and wrote a single line.
Precipitation event. No deviation.
He hesitated, then added beneath it:
First since corridor entry.
He did not underline it.
Cassian watched him write, arms still crossed. "You're slower than usual."
Soren glanced up. "Am I?"
"Marginally," Cassian said. "Reaction time. Posture."
Everett looked at Cassian sharply. "You're measuring him now?"
Cassian shrugged. "He's here."
Soren closed the ledger. "I didn't sleep."
"That explains it," Elion said easily. "Rain always makes it worse."
Cassian frowned. "Rain doesn't affect sleep."
"It affects people," Elion replied. "Subtle drop in pressure. Temperature shift. It's not dramatic."
Atticus considered this. "Fatigue is not a concern unless it escalates."
Soren nodded. "It hasn't."
"Good," Atticus said. "Then proceed as normal."
There it was.
Permission without reassurance.
The conversation drifted after that, shifting into the quiet technical language of routine: altitude bands, wind shear at higher layers, condensation behavior along the hull. The rain was rendered increasingly unremarkable with each sentence, folded neatly into the category of things that happened without meaning.
Soren listened, contributing when appropriate, but found his focus slipping at the edges. Not sharply—just enough that he had to re-center himself more often than usual.
His skin felt slightly too sensitive beneath his clothes, the fabric brushing against him with more presence than it should have. A faint ache had begun to gather at the base of his neck, spreading slowly upward.
He ignored it.
People got stiff after poor sleep. After cold exposure. After standing too long.
This was not noteworthy.
Eventually, Atticus dismissed them with a nod, the upper deck returning to its steady rhythm as he moved away. Elion turned back to her instruments. Everett gathered his papers, already absorbed in some internal calculation. Cassian lingered a moment longer, eyes on Soren.
"Don't push it," he said quietly.
Soren offered a faint smile. "I wasn't planning to."
Cassian's gaze flicked briefly to the ledger, then away. He said nothing more and left the deck.
Soren remained for a few moments longer, watching the rain streak across the forward glass. The droplets traced irregular paths, catching the light before being swept away by the ship's forward motion.
The Aurelius did not slow.
He turned and made his way back down the stairs, the smell of damp metal fading as he descended. The corridors felt warmer here, the air heavier. His limbs felt slower, as if the ship's gravity had increased by an imperceptible margin.
He reached his quarters without incident and closed the door behind him, leaning back against it for a moment longer than necessary.
The room was quiet.
Soren crossed to the desk and set the ledger down, aligning it carefully before opening it again. He reread the entries from earlier in the day, the handwriting steady, precise.
Everything recorded was accurate.
Everything made sense.
He added one final note beneath the weather entry.
Physical fatigue following exposure and lack of rest. No additional symptoms.
He paused, pen hovering, then set it down.
The heaviness behind his eyes had deepened into something closer to pressure now, a dull insistence rather than pain. His throat felt dry despite the water he'd had earlier, and a faint chill lingered beneath his skin, stubborn against the warmth of the room.
Soren sat on the edge of the bunk and breathed slowly, deliberately.
This was nothing.
Bodies lagged behind conditions all the time. They adapted. Recovered. Continued.
The ship hummed around him, systems balanced, weather classified, variance accounted for.
Normal parameters held.
Soren lay back without undressing, eyes closing briefly as he listened to the rain patter faintly against the hull, distant now, muffled by layers of metal and insulation.
Sleep did not come.
But he rested anyway, trusting that the body would follow the system's lead eventually.
Outside, the Aurelius cut steadily through the grey, rain falling and passing without consequence.
Inside, something small and human began to slip out of step.
_________________________