The alarm wasn’t supposed to go off yet. That’s the first thing that crosses my mind when the blaring sound pierces the silence, echoing through the long metallic corridors of Station Zenith. I had been at my post for sixteen hours already, monitoring the fusion core readings, making sure the coolant levels remained stable. It was routine, dull even. No one expected the system to fail so soon—especially not me.


I try to move, but a sharp pain cuts through my side, forcing me to stay still. My body feels heavy, limbs weak. Something's wrong—more than just the station, more than just the systems. I blink hard, trying to focus on the red flashing lights. "Core instability detected," the message reads, and I grit my teeth. I’ve never seen that warning in real-time before. Theoretical, yes. But not like this.


A warm trickle down my side makes me glance down. Blood. Dark, almost black under the flickering lights. I remember now—something hit me during the explosion. The initial core breach. A piece of shrapnel, maybe. My suit is torn, and the deep gash on my abdomen is oozing slowly, soaking into my uniform. My vision swims for a moment, and I clutch the edge of the console, breathing heavily.


"Command, we have a problem. Core instability. I’m running diagnostics now, but it looks bad."

The words come automatically, as if this situation were still part of one of our endless drills. My mind connects to the telepathic link, sending the message out with no need to move, no need to speak. But there’s only silence. No response from Command. I try to focus through the pain, my fingers tapping weakly at the console. Diagnostics flicker on the screen, but they’re incomplete. The core is failing, and I can’t stop it.


I press harder on my side, trying to slow the bleeding. The pain is starting to dull, but I know that’s not a good sign. Numbness means I’m losing too much blood. Still, I can’t think about that right now. The station—the mission—is all that matters. Earth is depending on us. I have to try.


I reach out mentally again, broadcasting my thoughts into the void. "Command, are you receiving this? Station Zenith has suffered a core breach. We need immediate assistance."


Nothing. The realization hits me, slow and cold. There’s no one left to respond. Not here. Not back on Earth.

I try to stand, but my legs buckle beneath me, sending me crashing to the floor. The impact drives the air from my lungs, and for a moment, I see stars. The room spins, and I bite back a groan, rolling onto my side. My breath comes in ragged gasps, shallow and fast. Everything hurts. But I can’t give up, not yet.


I drag myself forward, inch by inch, ignoring the searing pain in my abdomen. There’s a manual override just a few meters away—one button, one last chance to stabilize the core. I can see it from here, glowing faintly on the far side of the room. If I can reach it, there’s a chance…a slim chance I can reroute power, restart the cooling system, prevent the worst from happening.

I claw at the floor, pulling myself forward. My hands feel weak, slippery with blood. The distance to the button seems to stretch impossibly far. Every inch feels like a mile. My body is screaming at me to stop, but I can’t. Not when there’s still hope. Not when there’s a chance to save Earth.


Earth. The planet is freezing, slowly dying. After the sun dimmed, reducing its brightness by 77%, nothing has been the same. Crops failed. The ice caps spread. Entire continents were plunged into darkness and cold. We were the last hope—the station, the crew, me. Station Zenith was supposed to generate enough power to save the world, to give humanity a fighting chance. But now…I’m the last one left.


My crew—they’re gone. The radiation leak took them all. Some died instantly in the breach. Others…others were too far from the med-pods. I was the only one who made it this long, tucked away in the most shielded part of the station. But even that couldn’t save me in the end. I’m bleeding out, and time is slipping away.


I focus on the button. It’s only a few feet away now. Just a little further. My fingers reach out, trembling, straining to touch it. My vision blurs, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. The room tilts, and for a moment, I lose track of where I am, what I’m doing. I blink, forcing myself to focus. Just one more push, just one more.


But my body won’t obey. My arms are leaden, useless. I collapse onto the cold metal floor, breathing heavily, my cheek pressed against the smooth surface. The button is just out of reach—mocking me with its faint glow. A few inches closer, and maybe…maybe I could have fixed it. Maybe I could have stopped the chain reaction. But I’m not going to make it.


"Command…" I send the message again, my thoughts sluggish, drifting. "We failed. I failed. There’s no coming back from this."

It’s cold now. The temperature's dropping fast, the systems failing one by one. The oxygen is thinning, and my breath fogs the air in front of me. My fingers twitch toward the button, but I know I’ll never reach it. I’m too weak. My vision darkens at the edges, and the pain is starting to fade into a dull, distant ache.


I think of Earth, of the cities buried in ice, the people waiting for the warmth we promised them. The hope we failed to deliver. I wonder if they know yet that it’s over, that the last lifeline has snapped. I hope they don’t, not yet. Let them believe a little longer.

The lights flicker, and I know it’s the end. I can feel my heartbeat slowing, each thud weaker than the last. I close my eyes, and for a moment, it almost feels peaceful, like sinking into a deep sleep. My last thought drifts out into the silence, a final plea that no one will hear.


"I’m sorry."