The emergency ladder groaned beneath Hernan's weight, each metal rung vibrating with a cold, hollow resonance. It wasn't just the echo of movement — it was something deeper, like the shaft itself remembered the climb. A corridor of rust and forgotten intent.
The walls narrowed as he ascended, curved inward like a throat about to close. His gloves scraped oxidized flakes from the sides, tiny flecks drifting past him like rusted snow.
Gemini stood below, silent, her expression unreadable in the filtered gloom. She didn't speak. She didn't rush him. She only waited, eyes fixed upward, breath steady and sharp — like she was watching not just him, but the moment itself.
He reached the hatch.
Paused.
His hand hovered over the manual wheel, fingers splayed. He hadn't touched it yet, but the metal already felt warm under his palm, as if it had been anticipating him.
"Something's wrong," he murmured. Not fear. Not hesitation. Not even surprise.
Recognition.
Gemini said nothing.
