The screaming had stopped hours ago.
Now, there was only the low, broken hum of the ship's failing systems and the flicker of half-dead emergency lights. Shadows stretched across the blood-smeared walls, the coppery stench thick and sour in the recycled air. The ship reeked of rot—of sweat and decay, of too many people crammed into too little space for too many years.
Leah Móu Kassandra Vale couldn't remember the last time she ate.
Her stomach had given up growling days ago, the hunger hollowing her out until even the ache felt distant. The pain in her side, though—that was sharp. Hot. She pressed a trembling hand against the torn flesh beneath her ribs. Her palm came away slick with blood. She could feel the warmth seeping through her ragged shirt, the pulse of it growing slower. Fainter.
Her lips, cracked and dry, barely formed the words. "Not… like this."
She had fought. God, she had fought. She followed every rule. Waited her turn. She thought if she kept her head down, if she just endured, she'd survive. But the ship—the one meant to save them—had become a floating graveyard.
The rations ran out.
The guards stopped coming.
And humanity... rotted from the inside out.
The first to die were the old, the weak—the ones who couldn't fight.
The second were the fools who trusted.
She learned that lesson the hard way.
The knife wound—this—was a gift from her neighbor, Mrs. Tamura. Sweet, soft-spoken Mrs. Tamura, who once shared her blankets and whispered about her grandchildren back on Earth. And then... she'd plunged a blade between Leah's ribs for a moldy protein bar.
"Sorry," she'd said. "I have to."
That was survival.
Leah's body convulsed, and the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth. She coughed weakly, each spasm like knives scraping her insides. The shaking in her limbs had grown worse—whether from pain or cold, she couldn't tell.
Her breath hitched, a shallow, rattling gasp. Her ribs screamed with every inhale. She felt her heartbeat—too slow, too faint—thrum against her palm where it pressed the wound.
The floor was cold beneath her cheek. Metal. Unforgiving.
And she was so tired.
Memories bled together, fevered and sharp—
The evacuation lottery: She fought her way through the crowd, clutching her ticket like it was her soul. "You're one of the lucky ones," they told her. Lucky, her ass.
Year One: A million people packed into a ship built for half that. Ration bars that tasted like cardboard. Metal walls. Metal floors. No sky. No sun. But she told herself—It's better than Earth.
Year Five: The fights started over everything—food, blankets, space to breathe. People vanished in the night, and no one asked why.
Year Seven: The guards took the last of the supplies. Called it ration control. She called it what it was: a death sentence.
Year Eight: Hunger stripped them of humanity. It made monsters. Mrs. Tamura proved that.
The world blurred, the ceiling lights hazing into a dull, sickly smear. The ship creaked—metal fatigued and old—like it was tired too.
She felt herself sinking, her body so heavy it could fall through the floor. She thought there'd be fear at the end. There wasn't. Just cold. And the slow, creeping dark.
No one was coming.
No rescue.
No miracles.
No hope.
She was going to die here—on a ship meant to save her—alone and forgotten.
Her lips parted, and a broken breath escaped. Soft. Final.
But then—
There was... light.
No, not light—something else.
A force—raw, impossible—pulled. It crushed her, folded her, dragged her through something too narrow for a soul. And then—
Air.
Her lungs seized—then gasped—dragging in sharp, cold, fresh air. She choked, body arching, hands clawing—
The ceiling above her wasn't metal.
It was white. Smooth. Familiar.
A ceiling fan spun lazily, casting soft shadows across textured plaster. Sunlight—actual sunlight—poured through a window, warming her skin. She felt softness beneath her—sheets. Pillows.
Her heart pounded as she shot upright, the muscles in her stomach flexing—uninjured. Her hand flew to her side—smooth. Whole. No tear. No blood. No agony.
Her pulse was a wild drumbeat in her ears. She knew this room. She knew this place.
Her apartment.
On Earth.
Her eyes jerked to the nightstand. The digital clock blinked lazily:
| February 1st, 2179
Leah's stomach dropped.
That's not possible.
Her hands trembled violently as she scrambled for her phone, swiping to the newsfeed. Headlines flashed—
|CORE INSTABILITY ALERT
Scientists Assure Public Volcanic Activity is 'Under Control.' Evacuation Rumors Are False.
A sound escaped her lips—part laugh, part sob, half-mad and bitter as glass shards.
The world was lying.
But she knew the truth. She'd lived it.
Earth was dying.
And in 30 days—
It would explode.
Her pulse hammered as the memories flooded her— The screaming. The blood. The hunger. The bitter cold of that metal floor.
She felt it all. She would never forget it.
Her hands clenched so tightly that her nails bit into her palms—warm and real and alive.
Not this time.
Her voice, hoarse and hard, broke the silence.
"No lotteries. No trusting. No starving."
She drew in a slow, shaking breath.
"No. Dying."
She needed a ship. A private ship. And there was only one man on Earth who could get her one.
She tasted the name on her tongue, bitter and cold—
Kael Orion Voss.
The clock ticked.
Thirty days.
The end was coming.
But this time—
She'd win.