The first disturbance aboard Astra-9 was so small that no one recognized it as the beginning of something watching them. It began with a sound—a low, trembling hum that wasn't part of the usual machinery. It vibrated deep in the metal, like the distant growl of something enormous turning in its sleep. Then, at 02:14, every light in the station dimmed in a slow, unnatural fade, as if invisible fingers dragged the brightness downward before letting it snap back to blinding intensity. Diagnostics claimed everything was normal, yet the station felt quieter afterward—not peaceful, but expectant, like a room holding its breath. Walking the corridors became uneasy; footsteps echoed longer than they should, stretching into unnatural whispers. Temperature and pressure readings drifted in erratic decimals, motion sensors flickered on and off as though detecting something they could not identify, always in areas shrouded in the deepest shadows. Crew members began acting strangely: one avoided walking alone; another heard rhythmic tapping behind wall panels; another claimed her reflection blinked half a second late in a darkened screen. No one laughed, because the shadows themselves had started acting wrong—stretching too far, shifting subtly when the lights dimmed, trembling like living things irritated by being watched. And through it all, the signal pulsed gently from the communications deck: lub-dum, lub-dum, lub-dum. But now it synced with the crew's heartbeats, quickening when they were afraid, sharpening when they were anxious, reacting as though it could feel them. The communications specialist whispered the words no one wanted to hear: "It's listening." And everyone felt it—an unseen presence had entered the station, not with footsteps but with awareness, patient and hungry, waiting for them to understand far too late.