The station was quiet now. I'd been awake three days, rationing the last of the oxygen, listening for the thing that had gotten in.

It came from the airlock—a shape that shouldn't exist in a vacuum, too solid, too warm. It climbed the corridor, and I understood then that it wasn't hunting me.

It was checking.

The anomaly that had breached the station, the one the mission log flagged, moved slowly past the dead consoles and the frost. It paused at my door.

"Still here," it said.

The voice was unmistakably my own.