“Move,” the guard says, and I step forward.
The space expands around me in deliberate disorder, stations arranged in a way that looks chaotic at first but reveals structure the longer I observe it. Crew members move between positions with practiced efficiency, their voices overlapping in a rhythm that feels coordinated rather than noisy, each call and response fitting into a larger system that does not require central confirmation to function.
“Tracking vector shift?—”
“Compensate two degrees?—”
“Power distribution holding?—”
No one stops what they are doing, but they all notice me.
I feel it in the way voices dip slightly, in the way movements adjust just enough to acknowledge something new in the space without disrupting what is already happening.
I am not taken to the edge.
I am not confined.
I am brought directly into the center.
That is wrong.
I slow just enough to reassess, my awareness sharpening as the implication settles in.
“You sure about this?” one of the guards mutters under his breath.
“Orders,” the other replies.
That word lands with more weight than anything else.
Orders.
From him.
I lift my gaze.
Tyrok stands at the forward command position, one hand resting against the edge of a console as he studies the projection in front of him. The light here is harsher, less filtered, catching along the edges of his form in sharp lines that emphasize rather than soften what he is.
“Report,” he says without turning.
“Unknown contact,” someone answers. “Closing fast.”
“Vector?”
“Intercept.”
I stop a few steps behind him, close enough to feel the heat of the systems and the stronger vibration beneath the floor, but far enough not to interfere with the movement around him.
“You’re not secured,” I say before I decide whether I should.
Several heads turn.
His expression does not change when he looks at me, but his attention sharpens.
“I’m not concerned,” he replies.
“That’s inefficient,” I say.
A quiet laugh breaks somewhere to my left, quickly suppressed.
