The words did not land all at once.
They arrived unevenly, as though they had to cross distance before reaching him—delayed by air, by the hum of the ship, by the quiet of the crew rest bay that had settled into its usual low rhythm.
Bram Cutter is not on the Aurelius.
For a moment, Soren did not react at all.
He stood where he was, still angled slightly toward Tamsin's desk, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other hovering near the edge of the table as if he had meant to steady himself and forgotten. The rest bay was dimmer than the corridors outside, lit by recessed panels that cast soft pools of light over benches and tables. A few crew occupied the space—seated, resting, murmuring quietly—but none of that reached him. The world had narrowed to the shape of Tamsin's voice and the absence it named.
Not on the Aurelius.
His heart gave a slow, heavy thump against his ribs. Then another.
That wasn't possible.
The thought came whole and immediate, not argued or reasoned through. It simply was. Bram had been here. Soren had spoken to him. Not once, not in passing only, but enough times for recognition to settle into routine. Enough for memory to take shape—not blurred impressions, not a single moment distorted by fatigue, but a series of encounters spaced across days. Bram's posture. His roughness of speech that never tipped into cruelty. The way he had worked with his hands, the way irritation had edged his voice when he was tired. The collapse at the system junction—real, unmistakable, heavy with urgency.
That did not erase.
Memory did not simply dissolve because someone said a name aloud and denied it.
His thoughts were moving quickly now, too quickly, but they had not yet scattered. They pressed forward, stacking one atop another, trying to reach a conclusion that refused to form.
"Impossible," he thought, distantly aware that he had not spoken the word.
Across from him, Tamsin was watching.
"Soren."
The sound of his name cut through the rush, grounding in a way that was both gentle and deliberate. It pulled his attention back into his body, back into the room. He realized then that he had not blinked in some time. His jaw ached faintly, clenched without his noticing.
He looked at her.
Her expression was neutral—concerned, perhaps, but measured. The expression of someone checking whether a message had been received clearly, not whether it had been liked.
He swallowed.
"What did you say?" The question left him before he had fully decided to ask it. His voice sounded steady to his own ears, though he could feel the tremor beneath it, the pressure building behind his eyes. "But Bram was, just—he collapsed. He's in recovery. He was brought to the medical bay just a week ago."
The words came out in a rush, one thought pushing into the next, as if speed might secure them. As if naming the sequence would make it solid again.
Tamsin did not interrupt him at first. She listened until the shape of his sentence became clear, then lifted one hand—not sharply, but with enough intention to halt him.
"Soren," she said again, slower this time. "There's no Bram Cutter on this ship."
The finality in her tone was unmistakable.
She straightened slightly, fingers gathering the edge of her papers, her slate resting beside them. "His name does not appear on the crew list. You might have gotten the name wrong." Her gaze did not waver. "You could look around and find him first, before consulting with me again—whatever the issue may be."
She paused, just long enough for the words to settle.
"I'll be going."
Tamsin stood. The chair behind her shifted softly as she pushed it back. She gathered her things with practiced efficiency, no wasted motion, no hesitation. When she turned toward the exit, she did not look back.
The rest bay door slid shut behind her with a quiet hiss.
Soren remained where he was.
The absence she left behind felt disproportionate to her departure, as though more had gone with her than her presence alone. His mind raced to fill the space, to reassemble the fragments she had dislodged, but the effort met resistance. The thought she must be wrong rose instinctively—then faltered. Authority had weight. Procedure had weight. Tamsin was not careless with names.
His head throbbed.
Once. Twice.
Then again, harder.
The sensation was sharp enough that it startled him, a sudden pressure blooming behind his eyes. A sound rose with it—not in the room, not carried by air or vibration, but inside his skull. A creak, low and resonant, as though something under strain had shifted just enough to announce itself.
The world tilted.
He reached out without thinking, his hand coming down against the table's surface with more force than he intended. The impact echoed in the rest bay, a dull bam that cut cleanly through the low murmur of voices. A few heads turned. Someone paused mid-conversation.
Soren barely registered it.
He leaned forward, weight braced on his palm, breathing shallowly as he fought the sensation of spinning. Cold sweat broke across his temples, along the back of his neck. His vision narrowed again, edges blurring before slowly, reluctantly, clearing.
After a moment—seconds, perhaps, though it felt longer—he pushed himself upright and sat down heavily on the nearest bench.
He stayed there.
Time passed, unmeasured. His heartbeat slowed, each thump settling more firmly into place. The pressure behind his eyes eased from sharp to dull, retreating just enough to become manageable. He focused on small things: the texture of the bench beneath his hands, the faint vibration through the floor, the steady hum of the Aurelius that threaded through everything like a constant breath.
When he finally looked up, the rest bay appeared unchanged.
The crew who had glanced his way had already returned to their own quiet activities. No one stared. No one approached. The space had absorbed the disruption and smoothed over it, just as the ship always did. Soren wondered, distantly, if anyone would remember the sound at all.
He exhaled slowly.
I overreacted, he told himself. The thought came carefully, deliberately shaped. A name. It's just a name. In the span of a long expedition, with overlapping duties and rotating crews, mistakes were possible. Names blurred. Roles shifted. He had been tired. The wind had been constant, wearing down edges, stretching days thin.
That explanation fit. It was reasonable.
And yet—
No.
The word surfaced without invitation, sharp and immediate. It cut through his reasoning like a blade, then vanished just as quickly, leaving behind no argument, only the echo of refusal.
Soren pressed his lips together.
He did not stand right away. Instead, he remained seated, letting the ship's rhythm seep back into him. Letting his breathing slow. Letting the weight in his chest settle into something less volatile, more contained. If there was an answer to be found, it would not come from spiraling here, from chasing a thought until it frayed.
He would think.
He would wait.
Just enough to decide what to do next.
_________________________
Soren remained seated for a while longer.
Not because he needed the rest—though his body suggested it—but because standing felt like a decision, and he was not ready to decide yet. The crew rest bay had resumed its low, ambient rhythm around him. Someone shifted on a bench. A slate tapped softly against a tabletop. The hum of the Aurelius pressed in from all sides, constant and unyielding, as though the ship itself were holding the space together.
He let his gaze travel slowly, deliberately, over the room.
Nothing had changed. The same people were here as before, their postures relaxed, their expressions neutral. No one looked unsettled. No one appeared to be questioning anything. Whatever disruption he had caused with the sound of his hand striking the table had already been absorbed, smoothed out, rendered insignificant by the ship's ongoing motion.
That, more than anything, steadied him.
The Aurelius did not react to confusion. It did not pause to account for it. It continued forward, systems adjusting, routines correcting themselves in quiet increments. Soren had always admired that about the ship—its refusal to dramatize.
He drew in a slow breath and pushed himself to his feet.
The motion brought with it a faint echo of the earlier pressure behind his eyes, but it did not crest. It settled into a dull presence instead, a reminder rather than a warning. He accepted it without comment and stepped away from the bench.
Rysen.
The name surfaced naturally, not as panic but as sequence. If there was anyone who could clarify what had just happened—anyone whose records were precise —it would be him. And if nothing else, Soren could justify the visit on practical grounds. The headache lingered. He was due for more medication soon.
Reasonable. Measured.
He exited the crew rest bay and walk the lower-deck corridor, adjusting his pace to match the ship's rhythm. The lower deck felt different from the rest of the Aurelius—not heavier, exactly, but steadier, more grounded. The ceiling arched lower here, the walls closer, the air carrying a faint metallic undertone layered beneath the recycled atmosphere.
Crew moved through the space with practiced efficiency.
They passed him in pairs or alone, some carrying tools, others data slates tucked under their arms. Their movements were purposeful but unhurried, shaped by repetition rather than urgency. Soren observed them as he always did, noting posture, cadence, the subtle markers of fatigue or focus.
Nothing stood out.
The ship's hum remained constant, threading through the corridor like a low, sustained note. It anchored him, kept his thoughts from splintering too far. Each step became an act of reentry into routine, into familiarity.
He told himself, again, that names could be mistaken.
Bram. Cutter. Mechanic. Quartermaster-in-training.
Perhaps he had conflated two people's name. Perhaps the role had been right but the name wrong, or the name correct but the position misremembered. The human mind filled gaps when it needed to, smoothed edges when clarity threatened to fray.
That explanation held.
It had to.
Otherwise —
He caught himself just before his thoughts could drift further, just before they could begin linking the absence of a name to something larger, something less defined. No. He would not interpret without data. He would not let conjecture outrun observation.
That had never served him well.
The medical bay came into view at the end of mid-deck's corridor, its door marked by familiar symbols and a soft glow that distinguished it from the surrounding panels. Soren slowed as he approached, his steps losing some of their automatic cadence.
He stopped directly in front of the door.
For a moment, he did not reach for the control panel. He stood there instead, listening—to the hum beneath his feet, to the faint sounds leaking through the sealed door. A murmur of voices, indistinct. Movement. Life continuing on the other side.
His hand hovered, then dropped.
Maybe he was overreacting. The thought returned, quieter now, less insistent but still present. He had been tired. The wind had been unrelenting. The days had stretched long, indistinguishable from one another in places. It was possible—probable, even—that his mind had stitched together something that felt coherent but was not.
A name.
Just a name.
He exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him in a thin line.
I'm just…
The sentence formed without completion, trailing off into nothing. Too what? Too focused? Too tired? Too invested in patterns that did not exist?
He did not finish the thought.
The door remained closed in front of him, solid and unmoving, as though waiting for him to decide what he was willing to ask—and what he was prepared to hear.
_________________________
The medical bay door opened without warning.
It did not slide apart with ceremony or pause—it simply disengaged, its seal releasing with a soft mechanical sigh before the panel shifted aside. The sudden motion drew Soren's attention sharply upward, his thoughts breaking mid-thread.
Rysen stood in the doorway.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
Rysen's expression registered surprise first—subtle, contained—but it smoothed quickly into something steadier, more clinical. His gaze moved over Soren with quiet efficiency, cataloguing details without making them obvious. Pallor. Posture. The way Soren held himself a fraction too still, as though bracing.
"Soren," Rysen said at last. His voice was calm, even. "I was just about to leave. Come on in."
The invitation was not rushed. Not concerned enough to alarm, not distant enough to dismiss. It anchored Soren more than he expected. He nodded once and stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the medical bay.
The interior was softly lit, warmer in tone than the corridors outside. Two privacy curtains were drawn along the far wall, their faint silhouettes betraying occupied beds beyond. The air carried the familiar scent of antiseptic layered beneath recycled warmth—clean, controlled, reassuring.
Rysen moved aside to allow Soren passage, then sealed the door behind them. The soft click of the lock settling felt final in a way Soren could not quite place.
"You look pale," Rysen said, already turning toward one of the chairs positioned near the examination counter. "Sit. Let me check you."
"I'm fine," Soren replied automatically—too quickly, perhaps.
Rysen did not argue. He simply waited, one brow lifting a fraction as he looked back at Soren. Not accusatory. Expectant.
Soren exhaled and complied, lowering himself into the chair. The movement drew a faint pulse behind his eyes, but it did not spike. He rested his forearm along the armrest and turned his wrist upward, offering it without being asked.
Rysen noticed. He always did.
He took Soren's wrist gently, fingers precise as they found a pulse. His touch was cool, steady, grounding. He checked vitals methodically—pulse, temperature, a brief scan across Soren's pupils with a handheld light. Each motion was practiced, unhurried, as though time itself behaved differently inside this room.
"How long has the headache been present?" Rysen asked.
Soren considered. "It's been… on and off. The last few days."
"Intensity?"
"Moderate," he said after a pause. "It spiked earlier."
Rysen nodded, absorbing the information without comment. He moved to retrieve a slate, making quick notes as he spoke. "Any dizziness? Disorientation?"
Soren hesitated. Just long enough to register.
"A bit," he admitted. "Earlier. It passed."
Rysen glanced up at him then—not sharply, but with something more attentive in his gaze. "Where did this occur?"
"The lower deck," Soren replied. "In the crew rest bay."
Rysen hummed quietly, acknowledging the response. He set the slate aside and reached for a familiar blister pack from a drawer. "Stress and prolonged environmental strain can exacerbate migraines. The wind patterns haven't been easy on anyone."
He pressed the pack into Soren's hand. Their fingers brushed briefly, the contact light but deliberate.
"Take one now," Rysen said. "And rest today. If the pain escalates or if you experience further disorientation, you come back. Immediately."
Soren nodded. "I will."
Rysen studied him for another moment, his expression softening just slightly. Concern, tempered by restraint. "You seem… out of it," he added, carefully. "More than usual."
Soren looked down at the blister pack in his palm. The foil caught the light, reflecting it in fractured glints.
"There's something I wanted to ask you," he said quietly.
Rysen did not interrupt. He waited.
"A week ago," Soren continued, his voice steady despite the way his heart had begun to pound, "I brought a crew member here. He collapsed at the lower-deck system junction."
Rysen's brow furrowed faintly—not in recognition, but in concentration.
"Do you remember his name?" Soren asked. "Bram Cutter."
The words hung between them.
Rysen did not answer immediately. He leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely as he searched his memory—not performatively, but genuinely. Soren could see the effort, the careful retrieval of records and faces.
Finally, Rysen spoke.
"I'm sorry," he said, his tone unchanged, steady as ever. "I don't recall that incident. And I don't know any crew member by that name."
The words landed more gently than Tamsin's had. There was no finality in them, no edge. Just fact.
Soren felt the familiar pressure bloom behind his eyes—once, twice, three times—before easing back into a dull throb. He did not sway this time. He remained seated, grounded by the chair, by the room, by Rysen's presence.
Rysen noticed the pause but did not fill it.
"I see," Soren said at last. The word emerged after a longer silence than he had intended. "Then I must have… mistaken."
The hesitation before the final word lingered, stretched thin before settling.
Rysen inclined his head slightly, accepting the response without challenge. "It happens," he said. "Especially under prolonged strain."
He straightened, then added, more gently, "I'm heading back toward the quarters. You shouldn't walk alone right now. I can accompany you."
Soren looked up at him.
The offer was simple. Practical. And yet, it loosened something tight in his chest.
"Yes," he said after a moment. "That would be… appreciated."
Rysen nodded once, already moving to gather his things.
Soren closed his fingers around the blister pack and rose carefully to his feet. The room steadied around him. The hum of the Aurelius filtered back into awareness, constant and familiar.
Together, they turned toward the door.
_________________________