Arin stepped inside, and the door closed quietly behind him.
The apartment was silent, but this time the silence did not feel distant. It settled naturally around him, carrying a quiet weight that no longer felt unfamiliar. He stood there for a moment before moving further in, his gaze sweeping slowly across the room.
Nothing had changed.
And yet, everything felt different.
He walked toward the table and activated his terminal. The display appeared immediately, showing the remaining balance after everything he had spent.
Stellar Credits: 41,400
Credits: 9,374
Arin studied the numbers in silence. The cost of survival in this world revealed itself clearly through them. Scans, transport, food, treatment—each step had taken its share without hesitation. Money here was not something that stayed still. It moved constantly, and if handled carelessly, it would disappear just as quickly.
For now, what remained was enough.
A soft vibration followed.
A call request appeared on the screen.
Instructor Halen Voss.
Arin accepted.
The projection formed in front of him, revealing a man with a composed expression shaped by years of routine responsibility. There was fatigue in his eyes, but it did not turn into indifference.
"I received the notice today," Halen said. "About your parents."
There was a brief pause before he continued.
"I'm sorry."
The words were simple, but they carried sincerity.
Arin listened quietly before answering. "I understand."
Halen studied him for a moment, as if trying to measure something beyond the surface.
"They informed the academy late," he said. "If I had known earlier, I would have contacted you sooner."
"It's fine," Arin replied calmly. "My condition has improved."
That seemed to ease something in the man's expression.
"That's good," Halen said. "At least that part is improving."
He paused briefly before shifting to a more practical tone.
"If you need help with attendance, records, or administrative procedures, contact me directly. I can't change everything, but I can make things easier where possible."
Arin understood what that meant. It was not an empty promise, nor was it exaggerated help. It was support within limits, offered without expectation.
"Thank you," he said.
Halen gave a small nod.
"Don't rush back. Stabilize first, then return properly. And think carefully about your direction. Not everyone needs to aim for the same path."
The words lingered after the call ended.
Arin stood there for a moment, considering them.
In his previous life, he had worked hard but without clear direction. Effort alone had not been enough. This time, he would not repeat that mistake. Whatever path he chose, it would be deliberate.
He turned and walked toward the wash area where a mirror was fixed along the wall.
Stopping in front of it, he looked at his reflection in silence.
The body staring back at him was still thin, shaped by years of weakness that could not be erased in a single day. His frame lacked strength, and his features remained sharp from long-term strain.
But something had changed.
The dullness was gone.
There was clarity in his eyes now, a steadiness that had not been there before. The difference was subtle, but undeniable. This body was no longer breaking down. It had stabilized.
It could improve.
He raised his hand slightly, watching the movement with quiet focus before lowering it again.
There was no need to rush.
Growth would come step by step.
His attention shifted briefly to the surroundings. Some things would need to be replaced—clothes, small essentials—but those could wait. His gaze returned to the mirror for a moment longer before he turned away.
There was no need to hide from what he saw.
His thoughts moved to something else.
His parents.
Arin walked back to the table and cleared a small space. There was no formal structure here for remembrance, no traditional setup prepared in advance. But that did not matter.
He placed two simple items in front of him, aligning them carefully. Then he stood still.
There were no rehearsed words.
No ritual.
Only intent.
"They did enough."
His voice was quiet, but steady.
More than enough.
He lowered his head slightly, not in grief, but in acknowledgment. What they had done could not be repaid, and it did not need to be. It only needed to be remembered.
After a moment, he straightened.
The past had been recognized.
That was enough.
Arin stepped back and sat down.
The silence in the room felt calm now, no longer pressing against him. His body was stable, his thoughts clear, and for the first time since awakening in this world, his direction no longer felt uncertain.
He was no longer reacting.
He was choosing.
Two days remained before the next step.
He would use them well.