The heavy hydraulic doors of the scrap ship had been sealed for nearly four hours. Outside, the harsh winds of the moon howled against the metal hull, but inside, the silence was deafening. The walkie-talkie sitting on the terminal remained stubbornly dead, emitting nothing but a low, empty hiss. They were supposed to be right back. It was a simple run. Driven by an anchoring knot of dread, the remaining employee finally broke protocol. Leaving the safety of the vessel unarmed, they stepped out onto the desolate landscape and tracked the faint, glowing path toward the facility’s main entrance. The heavy iron door groaned open, spilling them into the pitch-black concrete corridors. The air inside smelled of rust, old copper, and something distinctly worse. Following a trail of dropped flashlights and scattered scrap metal, they turned a sharp corner into a large boiler room—and froze. There they were. The rest of the crew lay crumpled across the cold floor, their hazard suits torn to shreds. The company gear was ruined. The quota was forgotten. But as the lone employee took a trembling step back, a soft, wet clicking sound echoed from the shadows near the bodies. Two oversized, light pink eyes blinked out of the darkness. A tiny, white insectoid larva stepped into the beam of light, tilting its head. It didn't screech. It didn't attack. Because the employee's hands were completely empty of weapons, the small creature slowly crawled closer, locking its gaze onto them with a strange, innocent curiosity.