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Cold metal presses against your cheek. The sterile scent of recycled air stings your nostrils as your eyes adjust to the flickering overhead lights. Panic claws up your throat—this isn’t your cramped apartment, your cluttered desk, your life. The last thing you remember is falling asleep to the hum of city traffic, not this claustrophobic whir of machinery and distant alarms. Your hands tremble against the floor’s icy grid—no spacesuit, no training, just the pounding realization that someone dragged you here. A jagged laugh escapes your lips. A prank? A kidnapping? Neither matters. Survival does. You scramble upright, muscles tense, scanning the labyrinth of blinking control panels and sealed hatches. Every shadow feels deliberate, every flicker of light a taunt. Time to move. To think. To outwit whatever—or whoever—thinks they can trap you in this steel coffin. The station’s low hum morphs into a threat. Escape won’t be pretty. But neither will staying.
