I melt back into the shadows.
Hold my breath.
Ciampa limps toward her, gloating, forgetting everything else. “Good. Good. Let it in. The pain stops once you stop fighting.”
He reaches for her.
And Jillian moves.
Fast.
Clean.
The hypo flashes silver in her hand. She drives it straight into the exposed crystal lattice at his neck and depresses the plunger without hesitation.
My blood.
Undiluted.
Ciampa screams.
Not pain—confusion.
Pure, unfiltered terror as the crystals embedded in his body react violently, fracturing from the inside out. The fungal masses convulse, emitting a sound like glass shattering underwater. Cracks spiderweb across his face, his chest, his limbs.
“What—what did you—” His words dissolve into static, then into nothing at all.
He collapses.
Hard.
The body hits the floor with a final, hollow thud.
Silence floods the chamber.
Not peaceful. Not yet.
Just… absence.
For one full minute, no one breathes.
Then—
The hum stutters.
Weakens.
Stops.
The song dies.
The station doesn’t cheer.
There’s no dramatic explosion. No triumphant fanfare.
Just a quiet so sudden it makes my ears ring.
Around us, infected crew members sag, confused, some collapsing to their knees. Crystals flake from skin and shatter on the floor like dead snow. Eyes blink—slow, stunned.
