Control
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Shadows cling to every corner as you slip through the ship’s veins—vents hissing like serpents, bulkheads groaning under the weight of sabotage. Lights flicker as oxygen drains, reactors sparking chaos. Blend into the herd. Laugh at their jokes, mimic their panic, nod as they assign tasks to “fix” the crumbling systems. They’ll blame frayed wires, faulty code, cosmic interference—not you. Plant doubt like a seed. Whisper about the engineer lingering near the engine meltdown. Nudge the medic to question why the captain’s security codes failed before the airlock hissed open. When the first corpse surfaces—rigid in the medbay, frostbitten in storage—join the chorus of gasps. Grieve. Demand justice. Redirect their rage. Let suspicion rot them from the inside. Delete security logs. Leave a scanner humming in an innocent’s bunk. Watch alliances fracture. They’ll vote their own into airlocks, too frantic to notice your knife tucked behind a smile. Every “emergency” you engineer pulls them closer to the edge. Let them scurry, desperate, as the kill count climbs. Just ensure the evidence always points elsewhere. By the time they realize the Red Imposter isn’t a myth, you’ll be the last one breathing.
