I thought freedom would feel like flight.
But now, slumped in a lounger with my face still painted in nebula light, I realize it feels more like floating. Dangerous. Unanchored.
I shake off the memory and rise, heading back to my cabin.
The suite's cool, softly lit, luxurious in that sterile, curated way that only the ultra-rich seem to enjoy. A blank canvas with no history. No soul. Just polished gold trim, whisper-silk sheets, and a refreshment tray with snacks arranged in geometric rows.
I strip off the robe and toss it onto the couch.
Time to feel like someone else.
My travel bag’s already half-emptied onto the bed. I dig out the outfit I packed with zero subtlety: high black boots with a synthleather shine, a clinging wine-red dress slit up both thighs, sheer panels that leave just enough to the imagination but whisper I know what I’ve got. I pull it on slowly, smoothing the fabric down my hips. Then I zip up the boots and stare at myself in the mirror.
My reflection doesn’t look like Ayla Verne of House Verne. Doesn’t look like someone anyone would marry off like a contract clause.
Good.
My pulse skitters with anticipation. Maybe I’ll find someone tonight who can help me forget. Maybe I’ll find out if freedom reallycanbe decadent.
The hall is quieter than expected. I stroll past plush lounges and curtain-draped privacy booths, but none of the usual music spills out. The ship hums beneath my feet, subtle, constant. But there’s a tension under it, like a held breath.
The party lounge is... closed?
A sign hovers in midair:Event Postponed. We apologize for the inconvenience.
Frustration prickles beneath my skin. I glance at my reflection in the smoked glass wall nearby. I look like I’m about to seduce a senator, not pace aimlessly through empty corridors.
Screw it. I head back toward the observation deck.
It’s emptier than before—just me and the nebula now. I settle into the same recliner, draping one leg over the other, the leather cool against my thigh.
The silence isn’t comforting anymore. It gnaws at me.
Then—just as I lean back, the lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then a low sound thrums through the deck—a noise that bypasses my ears and goes straight to my bones. It’s not the usual engine thrum. It’s lower. Meaner.
My glass jumps slightly on the side table. Vibrations.
“What the hell...?”
A siren blares.
My drink spills.
I leap to my feet, dress forgotten, eyes scanning the room. The curved window darkens for a heartbeat, then flashes as emergency protocol kicks in. Soft red lights glow along the edges of the floor. A computerized voice echoes overhead, calm but firm:
“Alert: Please return to your cabins. All guests must remain in secure areas until further notice. This is not a drill.”
My pulse slams into overdrive.
Not a drill.
Outside the window, the nebula gleams. For a second, I think it’s just distortion. But then... something moves. Something big.
