In the cafeteria, the lights are dimmed to their night setting. A half-empty mug of something yellow had left on the counter. The air smells faintly of synthetic coffee and the particular metallic tang that comes standard on Mira vessels. It's peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

Thump.

A muffled sound from the medbay vents.

Then again — scritch, scritch — something shifting in the ducts overhead, past the sealed grate near the corridor junction.

All signs point to the usual suspect, but the noise is followed by a low, distressed mrrp that doesn't sound like Lime at all.

A few crew members stir elsewhere on the ship. Yellow's already padding down the hallway, hair still mussed from their nap, rubbing one eye with the heel of a gloved hand.