Restitution

John pressed forward through the dim corridors, pulse rifle steady, boots silent against the smooth alloy floor. The further he walked, the more oppressive the ship felt; not in a tangible way, but in something deeper, something gnawing at the edges of his mind. He had expected silence. Instead, Restitution hummed, not the mechanical hum of an active vessel, but a low, almost imperceptible resonance that breathed through its walls. As though the ship itself were murmuring in the dark. The air was thick – wrong. Not stale, as one might expect of a derelict, but dense, heavier than it should be. Cold, despite the functioning climate systems. His breath didn’t fog, yet he felt the chill in his bones. He adjusted his grip on the pulse rifle. Focus. Here and there, he passed scattered remnants, abandoned containers, overturned furniture, pages scrawled with indecipherable handwriting. Some were torn clean through, as if shredded by frantic hands. Then, the passage twisted. He rounded a corner and came face to face with a door that shouldn’t be there. It was seamless, featureless, save for ancient lettering carved faintly into its surface, half lost beneath grime. He brushed his fingers over the grooves, trying to decipher the words. They were old. Older than this ship. We see the light. We cannot bear it. A sudden gust of air: soft, unnatural, brushed the back of his neck. John turned sharply, pulse pounding. Nothing.