The corridor smells of hot insulation. Seven occupied bunks glow through the infirmary window. Sato counts them with a finger, then points to you. Then herself. Nine. At the far end, the bridge door closes over a streak of silver gel. The ship announces a course correction. A rescue beacon flashes on the wall display: MERCY TO LUNAR RECEIVING. ARRIVAL IN FORTY MINUTES. Sato tears the display cable from its socket. There are people waiting at the receiving port. Hundreds, perhaps. The ship has already sent them your medical records and a clean quarantine certificate. Under the dead display, an independent pressure gauge begins to fall. The infirmary is losing air.
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.