Soren moved through the mid-deck corridor at an unhurried pace, the lights dimmed to their early-cycle setting, a soft, even glow that flattened shadow rather than erased it. The corridor felt longer at this hour—not because it was, but because there was nothing urging him forward. No meeting scheduled. No task waiting. Just the quiet continuity of the Aurelius holding its course.
The crew rotation board sat recessed into the wall near the junction, its surface lit faintly, names and time blocks scrolling with mechanical steadiness. Soren slowed as he passed it, not stopping outright, but letting his gaze skim the display. Most of the information registered as familiar pattern rather than content. Rotations adjusted. Assignments redistributed. Nothing that required intervention.
He noticed it without pausing.
The rotation slots remained without Bram's name. The notations on the display was clean, procedural, the kind of thing that could persist for days without comment. Soren continued walking, the observation settling into the same mental category as the others he had made throughout the day: present, noted, unremarkable.
The quarters corridor branched off from the mid-deck, narrower, quieter. The air here felt marginally cooler, the hum of the ship more concentrated, reverberating faintly through the metal beneath his boots. The doors were numbered in ascending order, each one identical in structure and placement, a geometry designed for efficiency rather than individuality.
He counted as he went.
Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.
The numbers grew smaller as he approached the end of the corridor. Fewer doors here, fewer reasons for foot traffic. Crew quarters assigned to those whose tasks kept them largely out of sight—maintenance, systems, logistics. The spaces that supported the Aurelius without drawing attention to themselves.
Door 2 sat second from the end, its surface unmarked, the indicator light steady and inactive.
Soren stopped.
He stood there longer than he intended, his posture relaxed, hands loosely at his sides. The door did not signal occupancy or absence beyond its neutral state. There was no sound from within—no movement, no vibration carried through the metal.
For a moment, he did nothing.
He thought, distantly, of the rotation board. Of the extended rest notation. Of the way Bram had dismissed him days earlier, irritation sharpened by fatigue. The memory rose without urgency, without emotional weight attached. Just a sequence of remembered facts.
He lifted his hand.
It hovered inches from the surface of the door, angled slightly, knuckles bent. He hesitated—not because of doubt, exactly, but because there was no clear reason compelling him to act. Bram could be asleep. Or elsewhere on the ship. Or simply not inclined to answer.
Soren knocked.
Three taps, evenly spaced. Firm enough to be heard, not loud enough to intrude.
He waited.
The corridor remained still. No answering footsteps. No shift in the indicator light. No sound from the other side of the door.
After a few seconds, he knocked again.
The sound echoed softly, absorbed quickly by the narrow space. Still nothing.
Soren lowered his hand.
The absence of response registered cleanly, without friction. He did not feel disappointment or concern—only the mild acknowledgment that Bram was not here, or not available. Either way, the result was the same.
Probably out, he thought, the conclusion forming easily, without resistance.
He stepped back from the door and resumed walking, the corridor opening up again as he turned away. The decision to move on felt natural, unremarkable. He could try again later, if it occurred to him. Or not.
A dull pressure bloomed behind his eyes as he reached the junction, subtle at first, like a tightening band rather than pain. He slowed, paused briefly, and drew in a shallow breath, then let it out. The sensation lingered, muted but present.
He did not stop walking.
Instead of taking the most direct route, Soren veered left, following the longer corridor that looped past the medical bay before reconnecting with the main thoroughfare. The choice felt instinctive rather than deliberate, as though his body had selected the path before his thoughts caught up.
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The medical bay lights were on, brighter than the surrounding corridor. The door stood open, the interior visible at a glance—clean surfaces, organized stations, the faint scent of antiseptic carried into the hall.
As he approached, movement caught his attention.
Everett stepped out of the medical bay, adjusting the collar of his coat, his expression composed but faintly strained around the eyes. He paused when he saw Soren, surprise flickering briefly across his face before settling into something more neutral.
"Soren," Everett said, his tone even.
"Everett." Soren inclined his head slightly. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Everett exhaled softly, a sound closer to a sigh than a breath. "Nothing dramatic. Rysen insisted I stop in." He rolled one shoulder, as if easing tension. "A migraine. Persistent, but manageable."
Soren nodded. "They've been… common, lately."
"So it seems." Everett's mouth curved in a faint, wry line. "Occupational hazard, perhaps. Or the wind."
"Or both."
They stood there for a moment, neither of them in a hurry to move on. The corridor around them remained quiet, footsteps passing occasionally at a distance, the Aurelius' hum steady beneath it all.
"You all right?" Everett asked, his gaze flicking briefly to Soren's face.
"Fine," Soren replied without hesitation. "Just passing through."
Everett studied him for a fraction longer than necessary, then nodded. "If it worsens, don't ignore it. Rysen has enough on his hands as it is."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Everett stepped aside, angling back toward the mid-deck. "I should get back. Archives won't organize themselves."
"Of course."
They parted without ceremony, Everett's footsteps fading as he turned the corner. Soren continued on, the dull pressure in his head pulsing once, twice, then settling again into a low, constant presence.
By the time he reached the junction leading toward the mess, the corridor felt subtly different. Not changed, exactly—but denser. The air seemed to press a little closer, as though the ship were holding itself more tightly together.
Soren slowed.
The mess lay ahead, light spilling out into the corridor, the muted sounds of movement and voices drifting toward him. He paused just short of the threshold, drawing in another shallow breath.
The migraine pulsed again, sharper this time, before receding.
He straightened and stepped forward, angling toward the mess entrance.
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The mess registered as different the moment Soren crossed the threshold.
Not in any way that would have drawn attention, not at a glance. The lighting was unchanged, still calibrated for evening hours, warm enough to soften the edges of metal and glass. The hum of conversation persisted, scattered and low, punctuated by the scrape of chairs and the dull clink of cutlery. Foot traffic flowed in its usual arcs—crew moving in practiced paths between tables, counters, and exits.
And yet—
The air did not settle.
It hovered instead, loose in places and tight in others, as though circulation had been interrupted and resumed without quite finding its rhythm again. Normally, the mess held a kind of equilibrium: a neutral envelope of warmth and airflow that softened movement and absorbed sound. Tonight, the wind drifted unevenly through the space, lifting faintly near the ceiling vents before slipping downward in narrow currents that brushed against ankles and chair legs.
Soren paused just inside, allowing the room to register fully.
No one else appeared to notice.
He stepped forward, letting the door seal behind him, and adjusted his path toward the far side of the mess, where the seating thinned and the noise dulled into something more manageable. Before he reached it, movement cut across his line of sight.
Vivian.
She moved quickly, tray balanced against one hip, her expression already composed for efficiency even as her pace betrayed a mild urgency. She slowed only briefly when she spotted him.
"There's a small issue in the kitchen," she said, voice pitched low but steady. "Drain pressure imbalance in the wet prep line. Nothing serious—just slowing service."
Soren inclined his head. "Understood."
"We're rerouting for now," Vivian added, already shifting her grip on the tray. "Food will be delayed a bit."
"Thank you for the notice."
She nodded once and was gone again, threading between tables without breaking stride, calling something short and clipped toward the counter as she passed. The mess absorbed her absence almost immediately, conversation filling the space she left behind.
Soren continued on, selecting a seat near the corner where the wall curved inward and the foot traffic rarely pressed too close. He sat, placing his hands flat against the table's edge, and waited.
The delay was noticeable, but only by comparison.
Time in the mess often moved imprecisely—measured less by minutes and more by patterns: who arrived, who left, how long it took for the noise to swell and recede. Tonight, the interval stretched just enough to register. Plates emerged from the kitchen in staggered groups rather than steady lines. A few crew shifted in their seats, glancing toward the counter before resuming their conversations.
Soren remained still.
The wind traced a slow loop around his ankles, then dissipated. A moment later, it returned from the opposite direction, cooler this time, carrying with it the faint, metallic scent of recycled air moving through unfamiliar channels.
When his food arrived, he accepted it with a nod and began to eat.
He neither rushed nor lingered. Each movement was measured, habitual, the act of eating serving its purpose without demanding attention. Around him, the mess continued its low, uneven cadence—chairs pushed back, voices rising and falling, the occasional laugh breaking free before settling again.
He noticed, distantly, that the hum beneath it all—the Aurelius' constant, anchoring presence—felt slightly louder here. Not stronger, exactly. Just more insistent, as though the ship were compensating for something elsewhere.
When he finished, Soren stood and carried his tray to the collection counter, setting it among the others stacked there. The area bore the faint signs of the kitchen's earlier disruption: a towel draped over a lower panel, a maintenance tag clipped hastily to a side rail. Already, someone had begun clearing it away.
He stepped back from the counter and paused.
The threshold pressed differently this time when he exited the mess. The corridor beyond felt cooler, the airflow more directional, moving with purpose rather than diffusion. He took a shallow breath—in through his nose, out through his mouth—and allowed the sensation to pass without analysis.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
Then he turned and began the walk back toward his quarters.
The route was quiet, the evening shift thinning as rotations settled. Lights dimmed incrementally as he moved, responding to his presence with practiced precision. The corridor's hum smoothed itself into a steady undercurrent, familiar enough to ground him.
By the time he reached his quarters, the dull pressure behind his eyes had sharpened into something more persistent. Not pain, precisely—an awareness. He keyed the door open and stepped inside, sealing the space behind him.
The room greeted him with stillness.
He crossed to the washroom and turned on the water, letting it heat fully before stepping beneath the spray. The warmth pressed against his shoulders and back, loosening the tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. He closed his eyes and stood there, unmoving, allowing the water to rinse over him until thought thinned and sensation took precedence.
Time passed without measure.
Eventually, he shut off the water and stepped out, drying off with deliberate slowness. He dressed and moved to the bedside table, where the medication Rysen had given him rested exactly where he'd left it. He took one tablet, washed it down with a sip of water, and set the glass aside.
Then he lay near the edge of the bed.
One hand came up to rest against his forehead, fingers splayed lightly at his temple. One leg bent, foot planted on the floor, anchoring him in place. He stared at the ceiling, letting his breathing settle into something even and controlled.
Scenes replayed—not as images, but as sequences.
The unopened door.
The uneven airflow.
The delay in the mess.
The absence of Bram from the schedule panel.
Each element presented itself without commentary, waiting to be weighed. He turned them over, one by one, testing their relevance against his usual frameworks. Patterns. Corrections. Self-resolution.
The migraine pulsed once, then receded.
Soren exhaled slowly and leaned back, allowing his weight to sink into the mattress. The ship's hum enveloped the room, steady and unintrusive, threading through the walls and floor with quiet insistence.
A thought surfaced—not sharp enough to alarm, not heavy enough to demand immediate action.
Just a question.
Am I accounting for absence — or smoothing over it?
He let the words settle without answer.
Sleep came gradually, the question lingering only long enough to be acknowledged before the hum of the Aurelius carried him under.
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