Behind me, the crew stirs. Their footsteps in the corridor sound like rain.
The container whispers.
I radio the bridge. No answer. I check crew vitals: all sleeping, deeper than medical induction allows. Too deep. g+ ark
The door doesn't open. It dissolves. Light spills out—not harsh, but golden-green, the color of spring at double-speed. And inside: no monster. No virus. Just a garden. Vines curling in impossible fractals, flowers that bloom and seed and bloom again in seconds, and at the center, a single fruit that looks like a human heart. Behind me, the crew stirs