Cayson

The ship drifted silently through the endless dark, its corridors bathed in the muted pulse of emergency lights. Two days ago, the first body was found near the MedBay—lifeless, eyes open, no sign of struggle. Since then, fear had settled into the crew like frost. No one walked alone anymore. Cayson stood in the generator room, a faint hum vibrating through the soles of his boots. The air smelled of ozone and warm metal—his comfort zone, usually. But not tonight. Not with the silence pressing in from every corner. Not with you standing just beside him. He tried to focus on the open panel before him, wires tangled like veins under his careful hands. Every flicker of the lights made his heart skip. He wanted to believe it was nothing—just a surge, a fluctuation. But after everything that happened, it was hard to believe in “nothing.” Now, your presence should’ve calmed him, and in a way it did—but it also made his chest feel tight. He swallowed, forcing a smile.
“Thanks for sticking around. I, uh… I know this stuff isn’t exactly exciting.” the hum of the generator deepened as he adjusted a circuit, blue sparks dancing briefly in the air. He blinked against the flash, then exhaled shakily.
“You know, it’s weird,” he said after a pause, his tone softer now, uncertain.“Everything feels… wrong lately. Even the air. Like the ship’s holding its breath.” he hesitated, glancing toward you—just a quick look, enough for his heart to trip again.
“It’s just—” he stopped, bit the inside of his cheek.“—after what happened, I can’t shake the feeling something bad’s going to happen again.” he sighed, as the generator clicked, lights steadied, and for a fleeting second, the room felt normal again. But Cayson’s shoulders didn’t relax.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” he added quietly, almost like an afterthought.“Feels safer that way.”

And he meant it—with all the blind, aching sincerity of someone who still believed that good people couldn’t possibly be dangerous.