He simply sat, listening, as the Aurelius carried him forward.
The hum did not change when Soren stood. It held steady beneath his feet, a constant presence that neither rose nor thinned as he shifted his weight and pushed himself up from the alcove. He closed the ledger and tucked it away, then paused long enough to let the movement of his own body settle. The corridor ahead was clear. Crew passed at intervals, their steps measured, their attention fixed on destinations that did not include him.
He started walking.
The path toward the mid-deck unfolded in familiar segments—panels worn smooth by years of passage, recessed lighting adjusted to the ship's cycle, junction markers embedded at regular distances along the walls. The Aurelius felt composed beneath him, its internal systems maintaining equilibrium with quiet efficiency. The air moved evenly through circulation seams, brushing his sleeves, lifting the edge of his coat before continuing on.
Nothing felt wrong.
And yet.
As he approached the junction that led down toward the lower deck, the sensation arrived with a clarity that made him slow without meaning to. It was not a thought. Not an image. More like a pressure that shifted direction all at once, as though something had taken hold of his momentum and urged it elsewhere.
Down.
He stopped at the junction and looked.
The stairwell descended in clean lines, its metal steps catching the overhead light without distortion. There were no warnings active. No sealed barriers. No visible indication of imbalance. Crew moved below, their silhouettes crossing briefly before disappearing into the deeper corridors of the lower deck. Everything appeared as it should.
Then came the creak.
It reached him as a sensation first—a faint wash that passed through his chest and along his spine before resolving into sound. Soft. Low. The kind of noise that might have gone unnoticed if he had not already been standing still.
The sound carried up from below.
Soren felt his breath hitch, just slightly.
The creak echoed once, then faded into the baseline hum of the ship. Around him, nothing changed. A pair of technicians passed behind him without comment. A slate chimed softly somewhere to his right. The Aurelius continued on, untroubled.
He turned his gaze forward again.
Urgency pressed in where none had been moments before. Not panic. Not alarm. Just a sharpened awareness that urged him onward, away from the junction and back toward his quarters. His pace increased, steps lengthening as he moved with purpose rather than drift.
He would go down after.
After he retrieved the screwdriver.
The decision settled quickly, taking on the solidity of a practical solution. He reached his corridor and stopped in front of his door, fingers already lifting toward the passcode panel. The sequence came to him easily—except that it didn't.
The panel emitted a brief, double beep.
Wrong.
Soren froze, his hand hovering inches from the surface. The sound lingered longer than it should have, echoing faintly against the quiet of the corridor. He drew a slow breath, holding his fingers steady where they were.
For a fraction of a moment, he focused on the sensation of the metal beneath his palm. Cool. Solid. Real.
Then he keyed the code again.
This time, the panel accepted it without protest, and the door slid open. He stepped inside and let it seal behind him, the quarters welcoming him with their contained quiet. The hum here was softer, filtered through reinforced bulkheads until it became something felt rather than heard.
He crossed to the desk and reached for the screwdriver where he had left it.
As he lifted it, a faint dusting of rust powder slipped free and settled against the surface of the table. The particles were fine enough to catch the light, their reddish-brown color stark against the neutral paneling.
Soren paused.
It was a small thing. Ordinary. Tools aged. Materials degraded. He brushed the powder away with the side of his hand, wiping the surface clean in a single, efficient motion. The residue vanished without trace.
He did not examine the screwdriver further.
Turning, he left the quarters and sealed the door behind him once more. The corridor received him as before, unchanged, its lighting steady, its air in motion. He walked back the way he had come, retracing his steps toward the junction.
The pull returned as he neared it.
Stronger this time. Not enough to force him off balance, but enough that he felt it distinctly—a directional insistence that gathered behind his sternum and pressed downward. His steps slowed as he reached the top of the stairwell, boots aligning with the edge of the first step.
The lower deck waited below.
The air rising from it felt cooler against his skin, carrying with it the faint suggestion of movement that did not match the circulation patterns above. Soren tightened his grip on the screwdriver and took a breath.
Then he stepped forward.
_________________________
Down.
The first few steps passed without incident. The stairwell was narrow but well-lit, the metal rail cool beneath Soren's fingers as he descended. The air grew denser with each level, the hum of the Aurelius shifting subtly in pitch—not louder, but fuller, as though the sound were occupying more space.
He reached the final step.
His leg gave in.
Not fully. Not enough to send him sprawling. Just a fraction of a moment where the strength beneath him faltered, the floor tilting sharply before his balance could adjust. His grip tightened instinctively, breath catching—
—and hands closed around his arms.
Firm. Steady. Immediate.
Soren's momentum stopped at once, his weight redistributed before it could carry him forward. He drew in a sharp breath, then another, his footing correcting itself almost as soon as it had slipped.
"Careful."
The voice was low, even, carrying neither alarm nor reprimand. Just fact.
Soren looked up.
Atticus stood close, one hand still braced at Soren's forearm, the other steadying his shoulder. His expression was composed, but his eyes were focused in a way that suggested he had not arrived by coincidence. He released his hold only after Soren's stance was fully regained.
"I'm sorry," Soren said. The words came out automatically, reflexive rather than defensive.
Atticus studied him for a brief moment, gaze flicking downward and back up again, as though confirming something only he could see. The wind brushed past their feet then, a cool current that slipped between them and continued on down the corridor. It felt oddly deliberate, its movement smoothing the last of the unsteadiness from Soren's legs.
Atticus noticed it.
He did not comment.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Yes," Soren replied. "I think I misjudged the step."
"Mm." Atticus straightened, giving Soren a little more space. "The lower deck has a way of reminding people it's there."
Soren nodded, though he wasn't sure that explained the sensation fully. He shifted his weight once more, testing his balance. It held.
They stood in silence for a beat longer than necessary.
"You seem distracted," Atticus said at last.
The observation was delivered without accusation. Not a question. Simply an acknowledgment.
Soren felt the weight of it settle between them. For a brief moment, he considered telling him—about the creaks, the pull, the way the wind seemed to gather where it shouldn't. About Bram. About the ledger.
He didn't.
"I'm returning a tool," he said instead, lifting the screwdriver slightly in explanation. "I found it in the corridor earlier. It belongs in the supply storage."
Atticus's gaze dropped to the screwdriver, then returned to Soren's face. Something unreadable passed through his expression—recognition, perhaps, or assessment. He did not challenge the answer.
"I see," he said.
The acknowledgment was simple, but Soren could tell Atticus understood there was more left unsaid. He did not push. Instead, he shifted his stance, angling slightly toward the corridor as if preparing to move on.
"If there's something on your mind," Atticus added, "you can come find me."
Soren blinked.
"Directly," Atticus continued. "No matter how small it might seem."
The words landed with more force than their delivery suggested. Soren felt a single, sharp thump in his chest, a sensation that caught him off guard before he could assign it meaning. He dismissed it almost immediately, forcing his breathing to remain even.
"I understand," he said. "Thank you."
Atticus inclined his head in acknowledgment.
They paused again, neither of them moving right away. Atticus's gaze lingered on Soren, assessing or perhaps simply taking note. The moment stretched, quiet and contained, before Atticus stepped back.
"Don't linger too long down here," he said, not as an order, but as a consideration.
Soren nodded.
Atticus turned and headed down the corridor, his footsteps measured and unhurried. Soren watched him go, noting the way his presence seemed to steady the space even after he had passed through it.
When Atticus was gone from sight, Soren remained where he was for a few seconds longer.
He drew in a long breath through his nose, then let it out quickly, the exhale more of a release than a sigh. The screwdriver rested cool and solid in his hand.
Then he turned and continued on.
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The corridor opened ahead of him in a long, gradual curve, its lines drawn with the kind of utilitarian restraint that defined the lower deck. Soren followed it without conscious decision, his feet carrying him forward at an even pace. The steadiness returned to him fully now, his steps landing with quiet assurance against the metal floor.
The wind brushed past his ankles.
Not in erratic currents. Not in the brief, wandering eddies he had grown used to. This was different—more constant, more directional. It flowed along the corridor in a sustained stream, cool against his skin, slipping beneath the hem of his coat before moving on.
He noted it.
Crew presence thinned as he went. At first, the change was subtle—a wider gap between footsteps, longer stretches of corridor left undisturbed. Then it became more apparent. A single engineer passed him without looking up. Further along, a pair of crew members worked quietly near a wall panel, their voices low and efficient, conversation limited to necessary exchanges.
No one seemed concerned.
The Aurelius's hum deepened here, not in volume but in texture. It felt denser, layered, as though the sound were pressing outward from the walls instead of merely resonating within them. Soren found himself listening more closely, attuned to the minute variations that most people filtered out without thought.
Then came another creak.
This one was louder than before. Not sharp, but pronounced enough that it echoed faintly along the corridor before being absorbed by the ship's steady baseline. Soren slowed, his heart responding in a way he couldn't immediately explain.
It wasn't racing.
It was louder. Each beat landed with distinct clarity, as though the space inside his chest had expanded just enough to amplify it. He drew a measured breath and continued on, following the sound rather than avoiding it.
The Aerostatic Control Passage emerged gradually from the curve of the corridor.
He recognized it immediately—the reinforced wheel-lock door set into the wall, its surface marked with standard pressure regulation indicators. The surrounding panels bore the subtle scuffing of infrequent access, their finish worn just enough to suggest repeated use by those authorized to be there.
The door was not shut.
It was close—near enough that, at a glance, one might assume it properly sealed. But as Soren drew nearer, the gap became visible: a narrow line of darkness along the edge where the seal had failed to meet flush. Air slipped through it in a controlled but persistent stream, carrying with it the low, resonant hum of systems operating beyond.
Another creak sounded.
Louder this time.
The door shifted slightly under the pressure, moving a fraction of an inch before settling back again. The motion was subtle, but unmistakable.
Soren stopped.
"This is the second time," he murmured under his breath.
The words were not an accusation. Just an observation. But they carried weight. The Aerostatic Control Passage was not meant to be left like this—not once, let alone twice in such close succession. The system's design did not allow for casual oversight. Not here.
It didn't feel right.
He stepped closer and placed his hand against the wheel. The metal was cool, vibrating faintly beneath his palm as the pressure differential pressed outward. He turned it with steady force, muscles engaging as the mechanism resisted before yielding.
The door sealed with a final, decisive shift.
The wind changed immediately.
The stream that had been slipping through the gap dissipated, its direction dispersing into the broader circulation pattern of the lower deck. The hum softened, retreating into its usual layered presence rather than pressing outward with contained insistence.
Balance returned.
Soren released the wheel and stepped back. He did not linger physically, though his thoughts hesitated, circling the closed door as if expecting it to move again.
Or is this—
The thought trailed off before completing itself. He dismissed it, just as he had dismissed so many others, and turned away.
At the next junction, he paused briefly. Below him, crew members worked with quiet efficiency, conveying equipment from one section to another with practiced coordination. Their movements were smooth, unhurried. Nothing in their behavior suggested awareness of imbalance or concern.
Satisfied, Soren moved on.
The supply storage area opened into a wider space, its boundaries defined by stacked containers and recessed shelving. The air here felt heavier—denser, carrying a faint hint of humidity that clung to the skin. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was noticeably different from the corridors he had just left.
He spotted Nell and Kara near the far end, their attention fixed on a series of open crates. They worked methodically, checking inventory against their slates, conferring quietly without raising their voices. Neither of them noticed him, and Soren had no desire to interrupt.
He adjusted his path and headed toward the section where tools were kept.
The area resembled a pantry more than a workshop—rows of organized compartments, each designated for a specific category of equipment. Screwdrivers, torque wrenches, calibration tools. Everything had its place.
Soren found the appropriate slot and slid the screwdriver back in.
The metal fit snugly, settling into its designated groove with a soft click.
His hand lingered.
Just above the handle. Not touching. Hovering as though caught between impulse and restraint. Heat bubbled up in his chest without warning, a sudden, uncomfortable swell that had nothing to do with exertion or temperature.
It startled him.
He withdrew his hand at once, fingers curling reflexively as if burned. The sensation receded almost immediately, leaving behind only a faint echo of its presence.
Without looking back, Soren turned on his heel and walked away.
The supply storage faded behind him as he reentered the corridor, the hum of the Aurelius resuming its steady accompaniment. The wind brushed past his feet once more—constant, unobtrusive, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at all.
He kept walking, eyes forward, steps sure.
And he did not turn around.
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