You unplug the monitor's microphone. The second copy of your pulse disappears. Whatever is behind the door was feeding sound into the medical system. You tap the bed rail twice. From the wall come two answering taps, a fraction late. Sato points to an old maintenance diagram. Acoustic repair gel fills the ship's hollow ribs. It listens for cracks and flows toward vibration. Someone has connected the gel to the rescue archive: eight survivors, their voices, their medical scans. You cover the microphone with your thumb. The tapping stops. Sato lifts her feet from the door. The handle turns anyway. You both run before it finishes learning the latch.
Eight survivors. Nine heartbeats. Something aboard your rescue ship is learning to sound human.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.