Tinker adjusted the mosscrete bracket again. For the fourth time.
It still didn't sit clean.
He crouched lower, resting his weight on his heels, eyes tracking the uneven join between the intake chamber and the anchor frame. The flame aperture was drifting half a claw-width from its guide rail. Not enough to shatter. Just enough to whisper doubt.
He reached for the scraper. Adjusted it again.
Then stared.
It was quiet. Not peaceful. The kind of quiet that pressed against the back of your thoughts and made you start wondering if maybe the flame was holding its breath too. The rest of the squad had wandered off around the third stabilization failure. Not out of frustration. Just… quiet orbit. The kind of distance that wasn't leaving. Just letting you reach the edge by yourself.
He hadn't eaten since morning.
The system didn't chime. Not even a placeholder ping. No sarcastic tooltip. No forced optimism. Just blank protocol silence. Like it was watching, too.
