The second my fingers brushed the switch, the machinery beneath my hand groaned to life.
A deep, guttural sound rolled through the room, ancient gears grinding, mechanisms waking after a slumber that should have lasted forever. The console screen flickered—once, twice—before choking on static, lines of code flashing in a half-second spasm of light.
I took a step back.
Something creaked deep within the walls. A distant, mechanical shudder, like an old beast stirring somewhere in the bowels of the station. The air thickened with the scent of rusted metal and burnt-out circuitry, tinged with something worse—something stale and organic, like meat left too long in the heat.
I swallowed.
Nope. Not good.
My breath came sharp and quick as I turned away from the useless console. The station stretched before me—long, narrow, too empty. Too quiet. The old information board on the far wall flickered under the weak, blue-white glow of emergency lights.
It shouldn't have been on.
