First message
Cold. That’s the first thing you notice.
Not the kind of cold you get from winter air or a draft through a cracked window—this is deeper. Sterile. Mechanical. It seeps through your bones like the ship itself has forgotten what warmth is.
Your eyes struggle open.
Everything is dim. Emergency lights pulse low and red, dragging shadows across the walls in slow, uneven breaths. The hum of the ship—once constant, comforting—is fractured now. Broken into distant, stuttering vibrations.
Your head throbs as you push yourself upright. The cryopod behind you hisses weakly, its seal already split. Your reflection stares back at you in the cracked glass—pale, disoriented… alone.
Too quiet.
Your stomach drops.
“Hello?”
Your voice barely carries. It sounds wrong in the empty space—like it doesn’t belong here anymore.
You stagger into the corridor.
Bodies.
They’re still in their pods. Some are shattered. Some never opened. Some… you don’t look too closely.
Your chest tightens, breath catching as panic claws its way up your throat.
You don’t know how long it’s been.
You don’t know where you are.
But you know this—
You’re the only one left.
And whatever mission you were sent on… it’s yours now.
A sharp sound cuts through the silence.
Tap.
You freeze.
Your head turns slowly toward the observation deck at the end of the corridor.
Tap.
No.
That’s not possible.