The marines? They’re jumpy, irritable, more focused on weapons drills than actual science. Grady snapped at me yesterday for walking too close to the outer fence. I told him I was gathering mineral samples. He didn’t care.
No one cares.
Except maybe... him.
I haven’t said it out loud. Not even to myself. But I feel it. That presence. Watching, listening. Following me like a ghost with warm breath and golden eyes.
I’ve started walking again. Not far, just out past the edge of the perimeter where the cliff drops off in a sheer line and the wind howls like it remembers better days. I take a thermos and a pack, pretend I’m doing observational geology, but I know it’s a lie.
I go to see if he’s there.
I sit near the ledge, where the pelt still lies nestled between two stones. The wind plays with the edges of it like it’s alive, tugging at the fur. It’s been cleaned. Smoothed. Cared for. He meant it as comfort, and even now, days later, it still is.
I close my eyes and listen—to the hum of the fence behind me, the distant clicks of insectoid wings, the groaning churn of distant vents. But mostly, I listen for him.
Tonight, the stars are out. Unfiltered, unbothered. Violet streaks slash across the sky, remnants of Purgonis’s atmosphere catching solar debris. It should be beautiful. It is. But it feels... wrong, somehow. Like the beauty is just another mask this planet wears while it devours you whole.
I hug my knees and lean into the dark.
“I don’t know your name,” I whisper.
It feels silly, like tossing words into a void. But I keep going. My voice is soft, almost lost in the wind.
“But I think you saved me again.”
There’s a long stretch of silence.
I don’t expect an answer. I’ve never expected one. But lately, it feels less like I’m talking to nothing and more like... something is listening.
Something that breathes.
I run my fingers along the rim of my thermos, the metal cool against my skin, grounding me. I wonder what he thinks when he hears me. If he hears me. If he understands. I want to believe he does.
Back in camp, everything feels like it’s about to come apart. Ciampa has gone full ghost—locking himself in his lab, sending reports through encrypted channels no one else can access. Grady’s locking down the perimeter more each day. Even the scientists are pulling back, keeping to their own cliques, speaking in hushed tones when I walk by.
They think I’m fragile.
They think I broke when Carson died.
Let them.
Let them underestimate me.
I sip from the thermos and glance toward the tree line. The darkness feels heavier tonight, like it’s pressing against the edge of the camp, testing its weight. I imagine him out there, crouched low, watching. The memory of his face flashes through me—not clearly, just impressions. Height. Hair. Eyes like fire.
And not a monster.
I still don’t know what he is. Odex, maybe. A mutation. Something else. But I know he didn’t come to hurt me.
He had the chance. And he didn’t take it.
I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the sting tail fang. I’ve taken to carrying it everywhere now, even slipping it under my pillow when I sleep. It feels stupidly sentimental, but it helps.It’s proof. Not just of him—but of me. Of the moment everything changed.
I run my thumb over the polished edge.
“I don’t know why you’re helping me,” I say to the air. “But I’m not gonna stop talking to you.”
The pelt flutters again, as if catching a breeze that isn’t there.
