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The pilot’s voice crackles through internal speakers, broken and distorted. “Aft systems damaged. Main comm array down. Port stabilizer failing. All passengers remain⁠—”

Another impact tears the sentence apart.

A flash of heat blooms behind the rear bulkhead.

The smell changes immediately.

Burned insulation.

Plasma scoring.

Smoke.

Every survival instinct I have acquired since Horus IV wakes up at once.

“Rana, aft compartment,” I say. “If fire reaches the medical tanks, we lose the whole cabin.”

She stares at me for one incredulous fraction of a second. “Are you giving orders?”

“Yes.”

“Figures.”

She shoves her toolkit toward me. “Keep that alive.”

The evidence.

I grab the toolkit with my good hand. My shoulder screams. I ignore it because my body has poor timing and I have larger problems.

The medical courier fumbles at her harness, fingers slipping. I cross the aisle toward her, half-crawling as the deck bucks beneath me.

“Look at me,” I tell her.

Her eyes lock on mine, wide and terrified. “We’re going to die.”

“Maybe later. Not yet.”

“That is a terrible reassurance.”

“It’s honest. What’s your name?”

“Sera.”

“Okay, Sera. I need you to press your hand here.”

I take her wrist and guide her palm to the cut at her temple. “Hold pressure. You’re medical, right?”

“Courier, not doctor.”

“Close enough for a crisis.”

“That is not how medicine works.”

“It is today.”

A startled laugh breaks through her panic, thin and shaky but real.

Good.