Solar Orbit. Close to Mercury.
The Skif, Captain Manuel's orbital tug, crawls through space like an old ox that refuses to fall.
Behind it—dragged by thick, groaning cables—looms a colossal relic: a derelict ergon factory station.
Charred plating. Soot-streaked antennas.
Jagged beams jutting out like the fossilized ribs of some extinct mechanical beast.
And yet, beneath the ruin—something still flickers.
A whisper of potential.
Manuel senses it.
He's seen enough dead metal to know when something's only sleeping.
This station could become a combat platform—if they can haul it.
If they survive the pull.
"We're still too close to the Sun," he rasps, leaning hard into the pilot's seat like the operation's weight is digging into his spine.
"The station's at critical mass. We're crawling. But it's worth it."
Every move is a razor's edge. One wrong shift—and it all comes apart.
But that's the job of a commander: to choose the impossible, and drag his people through hell.
He glances over his shoulder.
His eyes are sharp. Locked.
Not a trace of panic—only that unmistakable gleam when an android knows: this is the point of no return.
"Approaching pivot point," Pietro announces.
His hands move across the interface like a musician playing the nerves of the universe.
"Reducing thrust."
The ship groans, slowing with a long, strained growl.
Behind it, the station lurches.
The cables tremble like nerves under pressure.
Silence descends—taut and metallic, like the instant before lightning hits.
Only the engines hum, reminding them that momentum still holds.
"Maneuver complete," Pietro says. But the edge in his voice betrays him.
He knows: anything could fail at any second.
"Max thrust," Manuel snaps.
His gesture cuts the air—like a blade.
Maria responds instantly.
Her fingers dance across the console—clean, precise.
The engine roar swells.
The cabin vibrates.
The ship shudders.
The steel sings with strain.
Now. One surge. One chance.
Either the station breaks apart—
or it becomes the heart of a new defense line.
But less than ten seconds in—
A terrible screech rips through the hull.
Like claws dragged across metal older than memory.
"What was that?" Pietro breathes.
His pupils dilate.
The instinct of a fighter kicks in—raw, immediate.
Manuel narrows his eyes.
He doesn't just hear it—he feels it.
Something inside the station has given way.
"Shock buffer failed," he growls through clenched teeth.
"Needs a full replacement. Now."
Damn it.
This thing's too old to trust—
but too valuable to let go.
Maria's already rising.
Her face is stone.
No fear. Just focused defiance.
"I'll go. I'll fix it fast," she says.
Her voice is calm.
But there's that particular tone—
not asking. Just doing.
Manuel watches her.
His jaw tightens.
He's calculated everything. Everything.
Except for this—the part beyond logic:
worry.
"Be careful," he exhales.
Be careful, goddamn it. We need you.
Then the ship's AI chimes in—Emma.
Cold. Measured. Mechanical.
And yet…
"A solar flare is expected soon," she says.
"Probability of exposure is rising.
My recommendation: stay aboard the vessel."
...but under her algorithmic tone, there's a trace of something else.
Almost… concern.
Something even Emma herself can't explain.
As if the system fears losing its people.
Manuel's eyes flick to the indicators.
Pulsing. Temperature spikes.
The Sun looms closer—like a judgment.
He clenches a fist against the armrest.
The choice is made.
Now it's all up to her.
Pause.
Maria steps toward the hatch.
Her stride—measured. Controlled.
But behind her breath, beneath every calm calculation, the thought stirs:
Emma. The flare. The Sun.
The Sun—
not just heat.
Rage.
Ancient. Hungry.
One strike, and all that you are—gone.
But I have no choice.
This station is our hope.
I have to.
Around her—hum, vibration, the weight of responsibility.
The air strung tight as a nerve.
Manuel watches her go.
His silence—thick as armor.
But inside, something boils.
You're strong. You'll do it.
Just—come back.
"The ship has to execute the maneuver now," he says sharply, eyes fixed on the screens.
"Or the tug won't hold. The station will crash into Mercury."
"I can't give a precise forecast," Emma responds.
Her voice remains clinical, steel-cold.
But behind the shell—
a flicker of tension.
"Maybe a few more hours."
Hours. Or minutes.
Outside, the star waits—
burning. Watching.
And nothing stands between it and them but resolve, rusted steel—
and one woman in motion.
Manuel presses into his seat.
He is the eye of the storm, and not a single emotion is allowed to escape.
Maria catches his gaze and smiles.
It's not goodbye.
It's more like: I'll be back.
She touches her collarbone—
and translucent nanofabric spills down her body, shaping into a suit.
Like childhood armor.
Only now, this isn't play.
This is salvation, and it bleeds reality.
The airlock seals shut.
A soft hiss—then silence.
She is in the void.
Space.
Soundless.
Unforgiving.
Before her drifts the station—
a molten beast, its frame warped and wheezing danger.
Her magnetic gloves engage, and she begins to climb.
No steps—just careful, crawling ascent, like a mountaineer scaling a summit where air has no name.
"Captain, almost done," her voice crackles through comms—steady, even.
But beneath it, the static betrays the pressure. The heat.
"The shock absorber was dead. I removed it."
"Good," Manuel replies, eyes locked to the screens.
"Grab a spare—it's in External Compartment Eight. Just to your left."
"Copy that. And hey, be good, would you?"
Her voice bends into a smile. A flicker of light in this dark silence.
"Good... and gorgeous," she adds, a grin woven into her words.
Even through the vacuum, it glows.
"Installing now. Pietro—get that cocktail ready. You know the one."
"For a princess? I'll make it sparkle," Pietro replies, and the smirk is audible through his helmet.
Everything's going according to plan.
Manuel's wound tight—but somewhere inside, hope begins to breathe.
Then—
A scream.
System alarm.
Flashing red.
A siren splits the cabin.
"Solar flare detected!" the AI's voice pitches, nearly human in its urgency.
Manuel leaps to his feet.
Time coils around his throat like a noose.
The station trembles.
The screens flicker, glitching like a dying star.
"Get down!" he bellows, slamming the console.
His fingers blur over the keys.
"Maria!"
Silence.
No.
No—not now.
Not her.
He scans the indicators—
the station sways violently, buckling under the wave.
The tug lurches, as if stabbed.
Warning lights scream.
Static floods the speakers.
"Maria!" he roars into the mic.
But the silence—
the silence roars louder.
Pietro's already moving.
No orders. No questions.
Just instinct.
"I'm going after her," he says, voice calm.
Too calm.
Like a man walking into a storm he knows by name.
The suit activates as he runs, sealing around him like fate.
He dives into the airlock—
not like a soldier—
like someone going home.
"Go," Manuel chokes out.
"Now."
But the signal is failing.
Her feed cuts.
Distortion.
Static.
Nothing.
"I think... she's out," Manuel whispers.
He stabs at the comms—
only emptiness stares back.
His eyes burn with a fury that's part grief, part guilt, part helpless rage against a universe that dares to take everything in a single breath.
Pietro shoots into the void.
A bullet of purpose.
He races toward the last coordinates of her beacon.
Just don't be too late.
Just don't...
"I'm coming, Maria. Do you hear me?"
Even if you're at the heart of the Sun—I'll pull you out.
And in that instant—
everything holds its breath.
Because this isn't just about the mission.
Not just the station.
Not even survival.
This is about love.
This is about choosing to fight when the universe tells you to give up.
And from here on—
everything changes.