The cabinets were stocked, the scanners were calibrated, and the cot was freshly made. You ran a gloved hand along the counter, checking the vials one by one—sedatives, burn gel, coagulant. All accounted for.

The ship was quiet. Too quiet, for this hour. The crew should have been shuffling through for their routine check-ups by now.

Then the comms crackled to life with a burst of static.

The wound on their side was deep—not a scratch, but a clean, deliberate cut. Like something had sliced through the suit with intent.