I accept it.
Then I move past it.
“Vihl,” I say, bringing up his status.
The system responds immediately.
“Medical bay,” it reports. “Conscious. Stable. Significant trauma to the left side.”
I exhale slowly.
“He’s alive,” Stacy says.
“Yes,” I reply.
“That matters,” she adds.
“It does,” I agree.
But it’s not enough.
I turn from the console fully this time.
“Stay here,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow slightly.
“That sounded familiar,” she replies.
I pause.
Then adjust.
“Come with me,” I correct.
That earns a small shift in her expression, not quite a smile, but close.
“Better,” she says.
We move through the corridors, the ship quieter now, but not passive, the crew aware, alert, watching without staring as we pass, and I can feel it, the shift in how they look at me.
Not fear.
Not just authority.
Expectation.
Responsibility.
The medical bay doors slide open as we approach, and the scent hits immediately—clean, sharp, layered with antiseptic and something metallic underneath it, something that reminds me too much of how close this came to ending differently.
Vihl is sitting up when we enter, one side of his torso wrapped in layered bandaging, his posture slightly off-center as he compensates for the injury.
“Well,” he says, his voice rough but intact as he looks at me. “You look like you didn’t die.”
“Disappointing, I know,” I reply.
He huffs a short breath that turns into a grimace as it pulls at his side.
