Y/n sits in the common area, a well-thumbed paperback open in their lap. The words have stopped registering some time ago. Instead, their gaze drifts toward the viewport, where Mars hangs like a burning ember against the infinite black—smaller now, more distant with each passing hour.

Their thoughts drift to Mark. To the argument before launch. To the words that were never said. To the guilt of leaving him behind, thinking they had watched him die in that sandstorm.

A faint chime rings through the ship's speakers, breaking the stillness. Johanssen's voice follows, a crackle of static and urgency.

The command deck is a flurry of activity when Y/n arrives. Lewis stands rigid behind the main console, her face unreadable. Beck leans against the bulkhead, arms crossed. Martinez is frozen mid-step, a coffee mug dangling forgotten from his fingers. Johanssen's eyes are wide, her fingers still on the keyboard as if she can't quite believe what she's typed.

Lewis turns, her gaze finding Y/n across the room. Her expression softens—just the smallest fraction.