Every instinct screams at me to turn back. But I’m not wired that way.
I make my way toward the perimeter beacon—an ugly tower of fused metal and blinking lights that hums with a syncopated rhythm, like it’s in pain. The signal here isn’t better. If anything, it’s worse. But that’s not the point.
I’m not here for a signal.
I’m here for confirmation.
I glance out toward the ridge line, barely visible through the haze. The cliffs are jagged silhouettes, their outlines rippling like mirages in the refracted light. The storm bends the terrain into illusions—shapes that aren’t quite there, movement that could be wind… or not.
“I know you’re there,” I say softly.
The wind howls louder, flinging grit against the shielding of my helmet. “I saw you,” I add, a little louder this time. “I’m not stupid.”
The camp behind me feels a thousand miles away. In the storm, the world narrows down to static and silhouette, to breath caught in my chest and the persistent itch of being watched.
My words hang in the air like bait.
For a while, nothing happens.
Then—movement.
Just a flicker. Barely perceptible. A blur of darker shadow against the dark. Something too tall. Too upright. Too fast to be wind or wildlife. It crosses from one outcropping to another with inhuman grace and vanishes like smoke.
But that’s all I need.
My breath hitches, but I don’t panic. Don’t scream. Instead, I just smile, wide and slow inside the helmet. “Thought so,” I murmur.
I don’t expect a response. I don’t get one.
The presence doesn’t return. The cliffs settle into stillness again. But I know what I saw. I know what I felt. The eyes I’ve sensed at the edge of every dream since we landed… they’re real.
And they’re his.
I wait another moment, pretending to fiddle with the compad, then turn back toward camp. The storm hasn’t let up,but I walk easier now, like some weight has been lifted. I’m not crazy. Something’s out there. And for whatever reason, it hasn’t tried to kill us.
Yet.
Inside the dome, the temperature change hits like a slap. The warm, filtered air fogs up my visor instantly. I unlatch the seals and pull the helmet off, dragging a hand through my damp hair as I walk back toward the bunk modules.
The place is quieter than usual. The storm must be giving even the marines second thoughts. Or maybe everyone’s just pretending things are fine, like they always do.
My room is exactly as I left it—spartan, too bright, and barely big enough to stretch out in. The compad Carson gave me is still tucked into my satchel, hidden beneath a stack of datapads full of mineral surveys and incomplete reports.
I sit down on the edge of the cot and pull the satchel closer, fingers grazing over the compad’s edge.
It feels heavier than before.
Like it knows I saw something tonight. Like it’s daring me to open it.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I lie back on the cot and stare at the ceiling. Outside, the storm howls. I can hear the faint thrum of the distortion field struggling to keep up with the atmospheric spikes. The lights flicker once, then settle. My heart doesn’t.
I think about the blur in the cliffs. The stillness of that shadow. The fact that it didn’t charge. Didn’t snarl. Just… watched.
And I think about the way it moved. Like it belonged here more than we ever could.
