The screaming had stopped hours ago.
Now, only the ship's failing systems remained, humming a low, broken dirge. The air reeked of sweat, rot, and the coppery tang of blood—so thick it coated Leah's tongue with every shallow breath.
Leah Kassandra Vale, slumped against the cold metal wal.
The hunger had left her days ago, replaced by an eerie hollowness, as if her stomach had finally accepted there was nothing left to beg for. But the pain in her side was another matter. It burned, sharp and hot, pulsing with every weak beat of her heart.
With trembling fingers, she pressed against the torn flesh beneath her ribs. The wound was deep. Her palm came away slick with blood, dark and glistening in the dim emergency lights. Still bleeding. Still dying.
Her lips cracked as she forced out a whisper.
"Not… like this."
It wasn't supposed to end like this.
She had done everything right.
She followed the rules. Stood in line. Took only what she was given. She endured, and endured, and endured—because wasn't that what survival was? Wasn't that what they told her?
But the ship—the one meant to save them—had become something else.
A graveyard.
The rations had dwindled. The guards stopped coming. Order crumbled, then shattered, and in the end, there was nothing left but teeth and knives.
She should have seen it coming.
The first to die were the ones who couldn't fight. The elderly, the sick, the ones too kind to steal from the hands of another. Then came the ones who trusted too easily.
Mrs. Tamura had been one of those. Gentle, soft-spoken Mrs. Tamura, who once shared her blankets and whispered stories about her grandchildren sleeping safely in cryo-pods. Leah had trusted her. She hadn't hesitated when the woman asked for help.
And then, with eyes full of tears, Mrs. Tamura drove a knife between Leah's ribs.
"I'm sorry," she had said, voice shaking, breath ragged. "I have to."
Leah didn't even hate her for it.
She understood.
Survival wasn't about fairness. It wasn't about strength. It was about who was willing to take from someone else.
A violent shudder wracked her body. She tasted blood. Too much blood.
Her limbs were so cold now. The metal floor beneath her cheek was unforgiving, seeping into her bones, pressing her down, pulling her under.
She thought there'd be fear at the end.
There wasn't.
Only exhaustion.
Memories blurred together, flashing through her mind like scattered pages from a life that no longer belonged to her.
The evacuation lottery—standing in a sea of desperate bodies, her ticket clutched so tightly it bent under her nails. One in a million. The chosen lucky ones.
Year One: A ship meant for half its passengers, now filled beyond capacity. Metal walls. Metal floors. No sky. No sun. But she told herself it was better than what they left behind.
Year Five: Fights over food. Fights over blankets. Fights over the space to breathe.
Year Seven: The last of the guards took the last of the rations. They called it "control." She called it a death sentence.
Year Eight: The monsters came out. Not from the dark. Not from nightmares. From people.
Mrs. Tamura had proved that.
A rattling breath scraped past Leah's lips. Her heartbeat stuttered—too slow, too faint.
She was sinking.
There was no saving her now.
No rescue.
No miracles.
No hope.
She was going to die here. Alone. Forgotten.
Her lips parted, and a broken sound escaped. A sigh. A whisper. A goodbye.
And then—
Something pulled her back.
Not light. Not warmth.
Something else.
It gripped her, crushed her, folded her, dragged her through something too narrow for a soul.
And then—
Air.
Her lungs spasmed as she gasped, the burn of oxygen flooding her chest. Her back arched, her hands clawing at—
Sheets.
Not metal. Fabric. Soft. Warm.
She blinked rapidly, the ceiling above her coming into focus. Not metal panels. Not flickering emergency lights.
A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, casting slow-moving shadows across plaster.
Sunlight—actual sunlight—poured through a window, warming her skin.
Her hands shot to her ribs—smooth. Whole. No wound. No blood. No pain.
Her heart pounded as she threw back the covers, her breath ragged as she scanned the room.
She knew this place.
Her apartment.
On Earth.
Her pulse roared in her ears as she lunged for her phone, swiping with shaking fingers. The date. She needed the date.
| February 1st, 2179
Leah froze.
Her stomach clenched, nausea curling in her gut.
No.
No, that's not possible.
Her breath came fast and uneven as she scrolled through the newsfeed, words blurring together—
| CORE INSTABILITY ALERT
| Scientists Assure Public Volcanic Activity is 'Under Control.'
| Evacuation Rumors Are False.
A sound broke from her lips. Half laugh. Half sob. Bitter as old regret.
She had heard these lies before.
She had lived them.
And she knew the truth.
Earth was dying.
And in thirty days—
It would explode.
Her body trembled as the memories crashed over her—the blood, the hunger, the betrayal, the cold bite of that metal floor.
She felt it all. She would never forget it.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. Warm. Real. Alive.
Not this time.
Her voice, hoarse and unyielding, shattered the silence.
"No lotteries. No trusting. No starving."
She sucked in a slow, shaking breath.
"No. Dying."
She needed a ship. A private one.
And there was only one man on Earth who could get her one.
She spoke his name aloud, the taste of it cold on her tongue.
Kael Orion Voss.
The clock ticked.
Thirty days.
The end was coming.
But this time—
She'd win.