Dr. Mira Khaleel sat cross-legged in the medbay, surrounded by silence and glass.
The light in the room had changed again—less surgical white, more amber. Warmer. Comforting, even.
That was the trap, wasn't it?
Comfort.
She held an old photograph between her fingers. One of the few personal items stored on the Demiurge—a group shot of the crew, taken during their first flight together. Elise in front, Loro off to the side, arms crossed and smirking.
And right beside Mira... someone else.
A man.
Tall, dark hair, laughing with his hand on her shoulder.
But his face was scratched out.
She couldn't remember his name.
She couldn't remember ever being in a relationship.
And yet her heart ached with recognition.
He loved you, the ship whispered.
The thought wasn't hers. But it felt real.
He was yours.
The lights dimmed again.
Heat flushed through Mira's skin. She touched her neck—her fingers trembling. The air was thick, scented faintly of sweat and citrus.
There was a sound.
Breath.
Behind her.
She turned.
He stood there.
The man from the photo.
No suit. No helmet. Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the faint trace of oil on his hands. His smile hit her like lightning—like memory.
"Mira," he said, stepping forward.
She took a breath. "You're not real."
He didn't answer. Just reached up, gently brushing her hair behind her ear like he'd done a hundred times before.
Her knees weakened.
"I missed you," he said, voice low, intimate.
"I don't even know your name," she whispered.
"You will," he promised.
She should have run.
But her body moved on instinct.
When he kissed her, it wasn't hunger—it was history. A flood of touch, scent, and shared breath from a life she didn't remember, but deeply felt. His hands slid beneath her jacket, found her skin like he'd mapped her long ago.
She gasped as his fingers traced the edge of her spine. Heat bloomed inside her—desire crashing against dread.
He laid her down on the medbay table.
Her clothes fell away under invisible logic, as if the ship itself willed it. His touch was warm, commanding, reverent. Her hips arched toward him, the shame replaced by an ache for something real—something true.
Please let this be true.
Their bodies moved together, in rhythm, in memory, in sync with a pulse that came from the ship itself. Every moan echoed. Every whisper of skin-on-skin reverberated across the walls.
She cried his name.
And then—
She realized she had no name to say.
Her eyes flew open.
He was gone.
She sat up—naked, breath ragged, heart pounding.
The medbay was back to cold white. The heat vanished. No scent. No sound.
The photograph lay crumpled on the floor.
She picked it up.
The man's entire body was missing now.
Not just the face. Not scratched out.
Gone.
Like he had never been there at all.
And across the back of the photo, written in her own handwriting:
"If you let the ship touch you, it will take you."