Air whistles through a pipe above the infirmary hatch. Sato reaches for its shutoff wheel. You catch her sleeve. The pipe is warm. A real pressure leak should be freezing cold. She lowers her hand. The whistle changes pitch, searching for a sound that will make you come closer. You follow the falling gauge instead. A narrow drain below the hatch sucks at your trouser leg. You kick a rubber floor mat over it. The suction holds the mat down, and the needle steadies. Behind the wall, the false whistle stops. Sato taps your shoulder and points through the infirmary glass. One of the bunks has begun to roll toward the unsealed drain.
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.