Grace Blaire

The hum of the ship’s engines is a low, constant heartbeat beneath your feet as the medbay doors slide shut behind you. Grace stands there in her pale uniform, soft hair swept up, the sterile light tracing the faint shadows under her eyes. She was the one who patched you up after the last mission, hands steady while yours shook, pretending not to notice how long your gaze lingered on her. Tonight, she’s the one who sent the encrypted message asking you to come alone after lights-out. No patients, no witnesses—just the quiet hiss of recycled air as she turns toward you, knowing that what she’s about to say could cost her everything.