Space. The Skif, Captain Manuel's ship.
It glides through the silent dark like a dagger forgotten in the body of the universe.
On its hull — invisible scars: pockmarks of meteor strikes, relics of someone else's fury.
The dim light of distant stars brushes against the metal like memories that refuse to fade.
Ahead — a speck, faint but growing with every second.
Glowing. Alive.
Earth.
Captain Manuel sits in his chair, one hand resting on the armrest.
His fingers tap rhythmically: tap-tap-tap — like the heartbeat of the ship pulsing through the vacuum.
The cabin is silent. Dead, thick — like the velvet lining of a coffin.
Only the systems' low hum reminds them: they're still alive. For now.
The door hisses open.
Vikary enters — tight-wound, like a coiled spring.
Every step carries the tension of a strike.
"Captain," he says calmly, though his voice is barely above a whisper.
"I need an immediate link to Earth.
Unauthorized channel. Personal contact only."
Manuel turns his head. His gaze is steady, unreadable.
But inside — more questions than answers.
"Understood," he replies shortly. "Who exactly?"
Vikary pulls out a thin plate — black metal, etched like a nervous system.
The engraving pulses in his hand as if breathing.
"My companion. Here's his ID."
Manuel simply nods.
His fingers brush the panel — clicks, motion, ignition.
Then, Pietro's voice crackles through the comm:
"Channel's live. Triple encryption. Shielding engaged."
"Good. Vikary — comms room is yours."
The Communication Chamber. A Place of Shadows
Blue light pulses along the walls, brushing across skin and eyes.
Each flicker echoes a betrayal that hasn't happened yet — but already breathes down his neck.
Vikary stands alone.
But the shadows behind him aren't his.
They are the past. His mistakes. His misplaced trust.
A flash.
Ivor's hologram materializes in front of him.
He's barely changed.
Flight suit. Spine held straight like a line of command.
But in his eyes… ash.
The kind of weariness that comes after immortality.
"Hello, my friend," Vikary says softly.
But friend lands like blood on his lips.
"Good to see you, Vikary," Ivor answers — flat. No emotion. No smile.
Not alive. Not anymore.
"I heard… Mercury fell?"
"We lost the battle. Not the war," Vikary snaps.
His eyes bore into the screen.
Look at me. Don't look away. You didn't betray us… did you?
"Though judging by how you vanished, maybe it doesn't matter to you anymore."
Silence.
The static buzz slices through his chest like a blade.
"Everything's changed," Ivor says at last.
"I stepped onto Earth… and it felt like waking into someone else's dream.
Cairus found me. I'm… not the same anymore."
"And we found a war," Vikary cuts him off.
His voice — like glass down a throat.
"You were supposed to negotiate.
You were supposed to stand with us.
Now I'm flying in to do your job, old friend."
Ivor looks away.
Is it shame? Or has he forgotten how to feel it?
"I… accepted Cairus' faith."
The air goes solid. Like concrete.
Vikary clenches his fists — bones crack under the strain.
"I believe in Hanaris," he says, each word a nail in a coffin.
"Freedom cannot be subdued. Not quietly. Not without consequence.
You made your choice."
Ivor lowers his head. His voice is barely audible:
"It's like someone implanted a chip in me.
There are… pieces of me I can't remember.
Like someone erased who I was and redrew me."
"They burned your soul?" Vikary's voice softens — laced with pity.
"Or did you offer your neck to them yourself?"
"How do you know…?" Ivor blurts.
Vikary smirks.
"I've seen it before.
Alex and Yulia destroyed Aspid.
They wiped out hope.
Our last stronghold, Ivor."
Ivor says nothing.
He knows Vikary speaks the truth.
"We're building a platform in Earth's orbit," Ivor murmurs. "It's… meant to stop Marcus. But I can't say more."
"Of course you can't," Vikary's voice is a winter storm.
"You're initiated now. Beyond reach."
"There's another way," Ivor says suddenly, desperate — almost like prayer.
"Let Alex and Yulia contact me. Through Cairus' virtual reality.
There… some part of me still exists."
Silence.
Vikary stares at him. Motionless.
Ivor — a ghost from the past, reaching back toward something already lost.
Can you come back, if you've betrayed yourself?
"I'll think about it," Vikary replies coldly.
Ivor stirs — for a moment, alive again.
A flicker in his eyes. Small.
But real.
"Forgive me. I was weak.
But… I'll try to come back. I swear."
Vikary ends the call.
Without a word.
A single gesture — precise as a blade.
The blue light fades.
He is alone.
The silence wraps around the chamber like a pressure suit.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Stars reflect in his eyes.
Silent. As always.
Indifferent. Eternal.
But deep in Vikary's gaze, something new begins to burn.
Not a name.
Not a plan.
A spark.
Maybe hope.
Maybe rage.
Maybe the beginning of something for which there is not yet a word.