The Skeld II drifted silently through the vast, inky void of space. Its hull, sleek and unblemished, reflected the cold, indifferent starlight like a jewel adrift in the infinite. The faint hum of its engines was a constant companion to its crew—a rhythmic reminder of the fragile barrier separating them from the suffocating emptiness beyond. Yet today, the steady drone seemed ominous, like a dirge echoing through the ship's corridors. Something was wrong. Everyone felt it, but no one dared say it aloud.
Jean stood frozen in the cafeteria, his breath shallow and uneven. His heart thundered in his chest, a wild and desperate beat that drowned out the world around him. Two weeks. That was how long he had been aboard the Skeld II. In that short time, he had struggled to acclimate—learning the routines, memorizing protocols, and navigating the complex web of personalities among the crew. But nothing had prepared him for this. Nothing could have.
Jerry. His friend. His comrade. Dead.
The image was seared into Jean's mind, vivid and unrelenting. He could still see the observation deck, bathed in its eerie blue glow. Jerry's body had been a grotesque tableau of violence—a gaping wound carved into his chest, his heart wrenched free and discarded mere inches from his lifeless hand. The air had been thick with the metallic tang of blood, the silence oppressive, as though the ship itself recoiled in horror.
Jean's stomach churned at the memory. He had stumbled away from the scene, his legs weak and unsteady, his mind grappling with the sheer brutality of what he had witnessed. And now, as the cafeteria doors slid open with their characteristic hiss, he found himself in the center of a storm he didn't understand.
The crew filed in slowly, their faces pale and tense. Conversations were hushed, their words little more than murmurs drowned in the oppressive atmosphere. All eyes turned to the round emergency meeting table at the center of the room. Its crimson button, polished to a sinister gleam, seemed to dominate the space, a silent arbiter of life and death aboard the Skeld II.
Jean stood by the table, gripping its edge as though it might anchor him. His palms were slick with sweat, and his mind raced, replaying the horrors he had just witnessed. The cafeteria felt like a cage, the walls cold and unyielding, pressing in on him. He needed to speak, to explain, but every time he opened his mouth, the words faltered, snagged by his own disbelief.
The sound of boots on metal drew the crew's attention. Captain Maximilian Hauptmann entered, his presence commanding the room. He was a towering figure, his broad shoulders and sharp gaze giving him the air of a man who had faced countless battles and emerged unbroken. Yet even he couldn't hide the tension in his jaw, the weight in his eyes.
"Jean," Max said, his voice low but firm. "What happened?"
Jean swallowed hard, his throat dry and constricted. "It's Jerry," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's… he's dead."
The room erupted in gasps and low murmurs. Crew members exchanged uneasy glances, their fear palpable. Max raised a hand, silencing them. His eyes locked onto Jean, unyielding and expectant.
"Tell me everything," Max commanded.
Jean nodded shakily, his hands trembling as he gripped the table tighter. "He was on the observation deck. His body… it was torn open. Stab wounds. So many of them." His voice cracked, but he forced himself to continue. "And his heart—it was lying next to him. Like it had been ripped out."
The room fell deathly silent. The weight of Jean's words settled over the crew like a shroud. Max's expression darkened, his features hardening as though bracing against an unseen blow. He muttered something under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear.
"What did you say?" Jean asked, his voice trembling.
Max's gaze lifted, sharp and unwavering. "It's back," he said grimly.
Confusion rippled through the crew. Jean's stomach dropped, a cold knot of dread coiling within him. "What's back?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Max's eyes swept the room before he answered, his tone heavy with foreboding. "The parasite."
The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Jean felt his pulse quicken. He had heard rumors during training—whispers of a malevolent entity, a dark force that moved unseen and left death in its wake. But those were just stories. Weren't they?
A wave of panic surged through the room. Voices overlapped in a cacophony of fear and questions. Max slammed his fist on the table, the sharp sound cutting through the chaos. His voice rang out, authoritative and commanding. "Enough! Panic won't help us. Kenneth, your thoughts?"
Kenneth, the ship's chief of security, stepped forward. His face was obscured by the reflective visor of his helmet, but his voice was calm and steady, a stark contrast to the rising tension. "If it's the parasite, we need General Cheese. He's dealt with it before."
Max nodded. "Then contact him."
Kenneth turned to the communication console and began typing commands with practiced precision. The crew watched in silence as the terminal flickered to life, only for an error message to appear: **Connection Unavailable.**
Kenneth's fingers hesitated, then moved faster, inputting a series of override codes. The result was the same. The message on the screen was unyielding.
"Damn it," Max muttered under his breath. He straightened, addressing the crew. "We've lost contact with command. Until the MIRA agent arrives, we're on our own. Disperse to your posts. Stay vigilant. And for the love of Ymir, do not engage unless absolutely necessary."
The crew hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances, but one by one, they obeyed. As the cafeteria emptied, the oppressive silence returned, heavier than before. Jean lingered, his mind racing with unanswered questions. He watched Kenneth at the terminal, the man's broad shoulders tense as he stared at the unresponsive screen.
"Kenneth," Jean said softly, stepping closer. "Do you think it's really the parasite?"
Kenneth didn't turn. His visor remained fixed on the console, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I don't know," he said after a moment, his voice low. "But if it is, we're in deep trouble."
Jean hesitated. "What is it? The parasite. What does it do?"
Kenneth finally turned, his visor reflecting Jean's pale face. For a moment, the man said nothing, and Jean thought he saw a flicker of something behind the helmet—fear, maybe, or something darker. When Kenneth spoke, his tone was measured, but it carried a weight that chilled Jean to the core.
"It hides," Kenneth said. "It waits. And when it strikes, you don't see it coming. It could be anyone. Even someone you trust."
The words sent a shiver down Jean's spine. He opened his mouth to ask more, but Kenneth turned away, his movements abrupt and final. "Stay sharp, rookie," Kenneth said over his shoulder. "And keep your eyes open. It's not safe out here."
Jean watched him leave, his mind spinning. The cafeteria felt cavernous now, the shadows in its corners deeper and more menacing. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, the silence pressing in on him.
Somewhere on the Skeld II, hidden in the vast labyrinth of corridors and compartments, something was waiting. Watching.
And it wasn't human.