I laugh—a dry, exhausted sound that echoes off the lab walls.
I’m not crazy.
At least, notyet.
Later, the night presses in like a warm, suffocating blanket, thick with dust and secrets. I step past the last flickering perimeter light, its glow barely enough to cast a shadow. Thewind hums through the fencing like it’s whispering to itself—low, steady, almost musical. I’m not supposed to be out here. The air filtration alerts pinged red an hour ago, and the comm unit in my bunk keeps flashing a warning about rising particulate density. But I’m not interested in warnings right now. I’m interested inhim.
I walk slowly, careful where I step, boots sinking into the soft grit that covers this side of camp. My breath catches as the cold air hits my lungs—dry and sharp, like crushed metal—and I taste something acrid on the back of my tongue. It doesn’t matter. I keep going.
The sensor post looms ahead, half-rusted and crooked from a dozen failed maintenance logs. It’s become our strange little meeting spot—though I’ve never met him. Not really. I leave things. He takes them. And somehow, that’s enough.
Tonight, I bring the last cookie.
It’s warm from my hand, the foil wrapper catching the starlight in a flicker of silver. I unwrap it slowly, careful not to tear it, and crouch beside the post. My knees crack softly, the sound loud in the silence. I pause, listening.
Nothing. Just the wind.
I press the cookie into the dust, making sure it won’t roll away. Then I take out a slip of notepaper from my jacket pocket. It’s old, creased from weeks of carrying it, corners soft from nervous fingers. I write only my name.
Jillian.
That’s it. No plea. No invitation. Just a name. A flag in the ground, if he knows what that means.
I tuck it beneath the cookie and retreat behind a nearby utility crate, my back pressed against the cold metal. The crate hums faintly—its power coupling’s half-broken—and the vibration buzzes against my spine. I hold my breath.
Time stretches. My legs cramp. My fingers go numb. Still, I wait.
A shape moves. Fast. Silent.
My heart jumps into my throat. I squint, but I don’tseehim. Not clearly. Just a ripple against the dark—a distortion, like the air itself is folding. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t so much as shift a pebble. But when I creep back out from my hiding spot, the offering’s gone.
So is the note.
He took my name.
The realization hits harder than I expect. There’s a strange thrill coiling through my stomach, sharp and electric. I feel seen. Not watched—seen. And that’s more dangerous than anything else on this planet.
I wrap my arms around myself as I walk back to the bunkhouse, trying to shake the goosebumps from my skin. The lights from the camp seem too bright now, too sterile. I pass a couple of students on night watch—Monroe nods at me, eyes sunken with fatigue—but I don’t stop. I don’t want to explain why I’m out here. I don’t want tolie.
Back inside, I sit on the edge of my bunk and pull the privacy curtain. The hum of the filtration system lulls most of the camp to sleep, but I’m wired. My fingers twitch. My mind won’t stop spinning.
Why did I give him my name?
Why did hetakeit?
I could open Carson’s compad. I could start decoding whatever secret made him withdraw so completely. But tonight… tonight I just lie back and stare at the ceiling. I let the memory of the wind carry me. The way it shifted just before he arrived. Like the planet itself noticed him coming.
He’s not just some beast, I think.
He’s something else.
And he knows my name.
CHAPTER 8
MAUG
Ishould not have taken the note.
