Camilla slowly rises to her feet.
Her body trembles, as if traces of electricity still crawl beneath her skin.
A ringing in her ears — like an explosion went off right beside her.
Her heartbeat stutters, frantic — like a drum in panic, ready to burst through her armor.
She breathes.
Air moves through the helmet filter — a toxic mix of ozone, smoke, and molten plastic.
It hurts to breathe.
But it's possible.
Around her is order pretending to be order.
Operators. Engineers. Security.
Their movements — precise, rehearsed.
But every glance holds a searching silence.
No one meets her eyes.
As if she's crossed a line.
An invisible fracture now separates her from everyone else — thin but sharp, like a crack across glass.
They feel it.
This wasn't just a system failure.
It was something else. Something worse.
From the crowd, like a blade through fabric, Ivor steps forward.
Purposeful. Unshaken.
His face — composed.
He's not looking for the guilty.
He's looking for the survivors.
He kneels beside her.
Not like a medic.
Not like a commander.
Like a soldier before a banner he's sworn to defend.
"You're alive?"
His voice is low.
Contained.
Like a trigger half-pulled, still resisting the snap.
Inside it — tension. Not chaos.
Weighty. Like a bullet in the chamber.
Camilla checks her suit out of habit.
Sensors. Seals. Fastenings.
All intact.
But inside — heat. Pain.
Deeper than flesh.
As if something seared her soul, not her body.
"I'm alive," she says.
Her voice is flat. Even.
A defensive tone turned second nature.
But Ivor hears the mask.
He touches her shoulder.
Brief. Firm.
Like in battle brotherhoods, where a touch replaces armor.
"You saved the platform," he says.
"Stopped it at the last second. Damage — yes.
But we're still standing.
You could've stayed safe. But you went in."
Camilla nods.
Inside — nothing.
No pride. No relief.
Only a cold certainty: it was the right thing.
Because this wasn't an accident.
It was an attack.
"What was it, Ivor?"
Her voice isn't fear.
It's a weapon waiting to fire.
He helps her up.
Her right leg buckles, but he catches her.
Silently. Without pity.
Like soldier to soldier.
They walk down the corridor.
Warning lights flash.
The smell — harsh, wrong. Plastic that shouldn't have burned.
"Power node damage," he says.
His tone — like a sentence passed.
"Looks like overload.
But in truth… sabotage.
Someone knew. Exactly where to hit. And when."
Someone. From inside?
From outside? And do I know who?
She says nothing.
But each step brings clarity.
This conversation isn't an exchange.
It's a code.
For those who are listening.
"Repairs already started," he goes on.
"We'll replace the nodes in a day.
But the holes in the system…
They could be anywhere.
And we're running out of time."
They reach the airlock.
The corridor watches them.
Eyes behind terminals, around corners.
Some pretend to be busy.
Some observe.
Camilla senses it: the air is shifting.
Fear?
No.
Expectation.
Like the pause before a sentence is read.
Ivor sees it too.
He steps forward.
His voice — iron crashing down:
"Back to work!"
"This isn't theater! Move!"
"Time's not on our side!"
The crowd flinches.
Like someone yanked the plug from the system.
People return to their tasks.
Mechanical. Uneasy.
Only they remain.
Among the heat, the blinking lights, and the walls behind which a threat still lurks, unnamed.
Camilla leans on Ivor.
Each step is effort.
But she doesn't give up.
She never does.
Her face — focused.
Her eyes — steel.
But something's already forming within her.
More than a plan.
An answer.
"We need a new vector," she says.
Quiet, but sure.
"We're reacting.
They're in control.
We have to turn the game."
He's silent.
A pause.
Breath held between choice and command.
His eyes — dry, scorched like Mercury's skin.
He doesn't argue.
Because she's right.
And he knew it from the start.
"You're going to medbay," he says at last.
His voice — steady.
Not an order.
A vow.
"No debate. Then we plan.
I won't let you burn out on these cursed cables, Camilla.
Not today."
She looks at him.
Long. Direct. Deep.
Without words.
None needed.
Something passes between them.
Older than decisions.
Younger than pain.
Human.
Time is slipping away.
She knows:
There will be a second chance.
And this moment — irreversible.