Patient by patient.
We inject them.
The recovery is… messy.
Their bodiesreactto the blood like it’s holy water on a demon. Some seize. Some vomit black sludge. Some scream so loud I think their throats will split. A few claw at their own skin like they’re trying to dig the infection out with their bare hands.
But most of them comeback.
Slowly.
Their eyes clear.
Their voices return—cracked, confused, human.
A girl from the hydroponics bay sobs into Maug’s chest, her entire body shaking. A tech from engineering throws up three times before whispering, “Where’s my wife? Did she make it?”
I can’t answer.
Darwin is one of the last.
When he wakes, it’s like watching glass melt.
Confusion. Panic. Horror.
“Jillian,” he gasps. “I—was I—” He grips my arm. “Was I one of them?”
I meet his eyes. “Yes.”
He nods. Doesn’t argue.
Tears fall.
I let him sob.
But I walk away.
I’m not here to nurse guilt. Not anymore.
I’m not anyone’s redemption arc.
Maug and I work for sixteen hours straight.
No breaks. No food.
Just blood and hope and endless medical alerts.
My hands are raw. My back aches. My skin smells like antiseptic and sorrow. But we keep going.
Because they’realive.
And because stopping means thinking. And thinking might break me.
We finish the last injection just as the station’s ambient audio sensors ping a system-wide update.
Maug looks up. “What is it?”
I check the terminal.
