Dawn came weak and red.
The light didn't feel warm anymore—it just revealed more of what the darkness hid. The forest around the crash site looked older now, as if the night had aged it.
Arin adjusted the cracked visor of his suit, the glass streaked with dried blood. The air outside was breathable but heavy with ash, and a faint hum hung in the distance—like the planet itself was groaning.
Lira and Kai packed the last of the gear while Professor Ren marked their route on the holo-map. A thin blue line cut across the wasteland, ending where the words Station Zero blinked faintly.
"Distance?" Arin asked.
"Thirty kilometers," Ren said. "If we keep steady pace, we reach it by nightfall."
Arin nodded, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
They set off through the ruins.
The world stretched wide and empty. Highways split like scars across the gray earth, half-swallowed by dust. Bent towers jutted from the horizon, their windows reflecting dull orange light. Sometimes they passed remnants of houses—collapsed roofs, children's toys turned to stone by years of ash.
Kai broke the silence first. "Feels like walking through a memory someone tried to erase."
Lira glanced at him. "Maybe that's what Earth is now. A memory of what we used to be."
Arin didn't reply. His thoughts were somewhere else—on the voice Kai heard, the message that shouldn't have existed: Station Zero still alive.
How could a lunar relay transmit from Earth?
Unless someone… or something… had brought it down.
By late afternoon, the wasteland gave way to the edges of a city.
They walked along cracked roads lined with burned-out vehicles, the metal frames eaten by rust. Signs still hung crookedly from poles—half-words, half-lies.
When the wind shifted, they smelled the ocean—but it was wrong. It reeked of metal and rot.
Finally, as the sun sank behind a ridge of skeletal buildings, they saw it:
A cluster of domes and towers half-collapsed into the sand. The main gate still bore a faded logo — "LUNAR SYSTEMS BIO-RESEARCH DIVISION."
Station Zero.
Lira exhaled slowly. "Doesn't look alive to me."
Ren stepped forward, brushing dust off the logo. "This was top-level research—terraforming, bio-adaptation, lunar microbial samples. Everything classified."
"Classified?" Arin repeated. "Even from your own crew?"
Ren didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the scorched doorway. "We all had our clearances, Arin. You had yours."
The words were calm, but something beneath them tightened the air.
Kai found the control panel beside the door, its screen cracked but faintly glowing. "There's power," he said. "Minimal, but active."
Arin's chest tightened. "How? The grid should be dead."
Lira's fingers hovered near her weapon. "Maybe someone kept it running."
Kai entered a bypass code. The panel clicked.
The door opened with a metallic groan, exhaling a breath of cold, sterile air that didn't belong in a dead world.
They stepped inside.
The interior was dark but intact. Holographic screens flickered weakly along the walls. Lab tables lay scattered with broken glass, dried samples, and notebooks half-burned.
Lira shone her flashlight on the far wall.
A message, scrawled in something that wasn't ink:
> "The moon wasn't the beginning."
Kai swallowed. "That's comforting."
Ren walked slowly, his gloved fingers brushing over the consoles. "These systems… they were designed for remote genetic trials. If anything survived here, it might tell us how the virus mutated."
Arin frowned. "If we came to learn the truth, fine. But if you already knew—"
Ren turned sharply. "What are you implying?"
"I'm implying," Arin said quietly, "that maybe this station didn't fall by accident."
For a moment, the only sound was the quiet hum of machinery still trying to live.
They set up temporary lights and powered the central terminal. The holographic display flickered to life, showing logs dated months before the lunar expedition.
Lira scrolled through them. "These entries… they reference Project HALO. Classified biological research. Lunar pathogen containment."
Kai leaned in. "Wait. That project's logo—same as the one on our shuttle manifest."
Ren's face remained unreadable. "That's… not possible. The mission brief didn't include any connection to HALO."
Arin stepped closer. "Then why does your access code open the files?"
The silence stretched.
Ren's eyes flicked toward the terminal. The logs began to scroll automatically—voice recordings, static, fragments of reports.
> "…containment breach in sector seven…"
"…subjects showing cognitive retention despite infection…"
"…prepare lunar transport. Earth environment unstable…"
Then another voice—calm, familiar.
Ren's voice.
> "Initiate emergency extraction. Begin lunar sample preservation. The truth must remain sealed."
Lira froze. "That's you, Professor."
Ren's jaw tightened. "It's a fragment. Out of context."
"Context doesn't change the voice," Arin said.
He stepped forward, the dim light catching the scar on his cheek. "You knew, didn't you? The virus wasn't new. It started here."
Ren's voice dropped. "You don't understand what was at stake."
"Then explain it."
"I can't," Ren said quietly. "Not yet."
Arin stared at him, the silence heavy between them.
Something inside him cracked—trust, maybe, or hope.
Kai broke the tension. "Guys… I think there's another signal." He pointed at a pulsing icon on the console. "Origin—sublevel two. It's broadcasting still."
Lira frowned. "Someone down there?"
"Or something," Arin murmured.
Ren adjusted his gloves, his face unreadable. "We need to check it. That's an order."
Lira shot him a cold look. "You don't give orders anymore."
Arin raised his weapon, scanning the hallway that led deeper underground. "We go together. No one stays behind."
The stairwell descended into dark metal and echoing drips. The air smelled of rust and decay. Their boots splashed through shallow water as emergency lights blinked weakly along the walls.
Kai checked his detector. "Signal's stronger here."
Lira whispered, "Feels like a graveyard."
When they reached sublevel two, the corridor opened into a vast chamber.
Broken pods lined the walls—some empty, others holding shapes that were almost human. Tubes connected them to a central core still pulsing faint light.
Arin stepped closer. His breath fogged the cracked visor. "What is this place?"
Ren answered softly. "Containment. Early-stage trials of lunar microbial exposure."
Lira's eyes went cold. "You experimented on people?"
"Volunteers," Ren said quickly. "They believed they were saving Earth."
"Did they?" Arin asked.
No answer.
Then the console flickered to life again—static, then a voice.
Female. Weak, but alive.
> "If you hear this… don't trust him."
The transmission cut.
Arin's heart pounded. He turned to Ren, whose expression had gone pale.
Lira raised her weapon slightly. "Who was that?"
Ren didn't answer. He only whispered, "That can't be her…"
"Her?" Arin pressed.
Ren's eyes flicked to the far end of the chamber—toward a sealed bulkhead marked LEVEL 3 ACCESS ONLY.
Before anyone could move, the door control blinked green on its own.
A hiss.
The lock disengaged.
Cold air poured out, and with it—the faint sound of footsteps.
Not human ones.
Measured. Metallic.
Something moved in the dark.
Arin lifted his rifle, voice low.
"Whatever happens—don't trust the silence."
The dead were never our worst mistake. The living were.