The corridors of Adra-9 stretched before Rotham like the bones of a sleeping giant—empty, cold, and fragile. The faint hum of distant machinery mingled with the eerie creaks of the station settling in the void.
Flickering lights cast long shadows that danced along the cracked walls. Dust floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by Rotham's cautious footsteps.
He passed rows of abandoned control panels, their screens dark except for occasional sparks of static. Signs of hurried evacuation were everywhere — scattered tools, a cracked datapad, and faded warnings in a language half-forgotten.
A low, almost imperceptible whisper seemed to follow him, carried on the station's ancient ventilation system. Rotham shook off the chill crawling up his spine.
"Get a grip," he muttered.
As he ventured deeper, a symbol carved into the bulkhead caught his eye — the spiral, again, etched with meticulous care.
He reached out and traced the curves with his gloved finger.
"Return," the word beneath it was barely visible, worn away by time.
Rotham's mind raced. Return… return to what? To whom?
A sudden spark from a damaged console snapped him back to reality. He wasn't alone here.