Chapter 436

The darkness pressed down on the walls of the ship, like it was trying to crush him. Max sat in the corner of the mess hall, the cold metal bench creaking beneath him.

He had been stuck here for what felt like forever. The silence was suffocating, the kind of silence that made you start to hear things. Things that weren't there. The engines had stopped weeks ago. No one was coming.

The rations were running low. The protein bars, the freeze-dried meals, all of it was almost gone. Max stared at the last pack of soup mix on the table, the bag crinkling in his trembling hand. It wouldn't be enough. He knew that. It hadn't been enough for days.

Max tried to focus on the task in front of him, trying to stay busy, trying to ignore the sound. But it was getting harder. The scraping, like nails on metal.

"Stop it," he muttered, standing up. His voice sounded weak.

He couldn't tell if the noise was in his head, or if something was really out there. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd heard it the first time. Maybe a week? Maybe longer. But it had been getting louder.

"Get a grip, Max," he said aloud, forcing himself to sound confident. It didn't help. He knew he was losing it. There was no other explanation for what he was hearing.

Max made his way down the narrow corridor, every step echoing in the vast emptiness. The ship was too quiet, and his own breathing sounded too loud in his ears. He'd never been alone like this before, not like this. Even when he'd worked solo missions, there had always been someone on the other end of the comms.

"Hey, can you hear that?" Max had asked once, on the first day. The voices in his head had seemed far away then. Almost normal. But now, it was like they were inside his skull.

He reached the storage room door and hesitated. The noise was louder now, a constant scraping, like something was dragging itself along the floor.

"Who's there?" His voice was hoarse.

The door slid open with a hiss, and Max stepped inside. The room was dark, filled with rows of sealed containers and crates. It smelled stale. There was no sign of whatever was making the noise.

"Maybe I'm just losing it," Max muttered, forcing himself to laugh. But it came out as a dry cough. He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble growing on his cheeks. He hadn't shaved in a while. The mirror had been broken for days now, and he hadn't bothered to fix it.

He stepped further into the room, eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. The scraping was louder now, unmistakable. It was coming from the far corner, where the emergency supplies were stored.

Max's pulse quickened. He stepped toward the noise, his breath shallow. There, in the corner, a crate was moving. Not a lot, but enough to make him stop in his tracks.

"No... no, no, no..." He took a slow step back. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to confront whatever this was.

The scraping stopped, and for a moment, everything was still. Then, a soft, wet sound followed, like something breathing. Something struggling to breathe.

Max reached for his gun, a small thing meant for emergencies, and his hand shook as he pulled it from the holster. He had no idea if it would even work anymore. His finger hovered over the trigger, but he couldn't bring himself to fire into the dark.

The wet breathing came again, louder this time. Then, a scraping sound that made his skin crawl, like fingernails dragging across the floor.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and the noise stopped. For just a moment, there was silence.

Then came the bang. A loud, sudden sound, like something huge falling. The crates around him rattled.

Max didn't wait. He turned and bolted, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath was ragged, his legs weak beneath him. He didn't know what that thing was, but he knew it wasn't good.

The sound followed him. A scraping, a dragging, getting closer with every step.

He reached the mess hall and locked the door behind him, gasping for air. He leaned against it, trying to steady himself.

"Just... just breathe, Max. It's fine. It's fine. You're fine," he muttered to himself, but the words didn't feel real.

He sank down on the floor, clutching his knees to his chest.

The scraping stopped again. But the breathing, that soft, wet sound, was still there, floating in the silence.

Max looked at the clock. There were only a few days left.

Maybe a day, if he was lucky.

The room seemed to close in on him. His hands trembled as he reached for his last meal pack. He tore it open with shaky fingers and poured the powder into a cup. The smell of it made his stomach turn. It didn't taste like food anymore. Nothing did.

He had to force himself to eat. It felt like his body was shutting down, like it couldn't take much more. But he had to stay alive. He had to.

The scraping sound was back, softer now. Max glanced toward the door. He couldn't go out there. He couldn't face it.

He'd heard stories, about the deep space missions, the ones that ended with the crew never returning. How the isolation broke people. How it changed them. But this... this was different. He wasn't crazy. There was something on the ship. Something that shouldn't be there.

He grabbed his gun again, his finger trembling on the trigger. The scraping was louder, coming from outside the door.

Max felt the walls closing in, the sound pressing against him. His skin itched. His throat felt tight, like he couldn't get enough air. He wasn't sure if the room was getting smaller, or if he was just losing his mind.

"Please," he whispered, choking on the words. "Please, just stop."

Then there was a knock.

At least, that's what it sounded like. A knock on the door, soft, like a tap from the other side.

Max froze.

It came again. Another knock, then another.

It was too much.

"Who's there?" He forced the words out, but his voice cracked.

The knocking stopped.

Then, the soft breathing started again.

Max's heart raced. He grabbed the nearest object — a wrench — and held it up like a weapon. But it didn't matter. He was alone, trapped in a room that was far too small for him.

He wanted to scream, but his throat was too dry.

Then, the door clicked.

A soft, almost imperceptible sound. The lock, released.

Max's blood ran cold.

He backed away, his hands trembling as the door creaked open. Slowly. Too slowly.

Nothing happened. No one came in. Just the sound of the door moving on its hinges, the dragging sound from the dark.

He couldn't take it anymore.

With one last desperate breath, Max lunged at the door, grabbing the handle, swinging it open. But the ship was empty. The sound of breathing was gone. The scraping was gone.

Max's legs buckled beneath him, and he fell to the floor, gasping.

"Am I... am I losing it?" he muttered.

And then, from the corner of the room, a figure stepped out of the shadows. Max froze, his blood turning to ice.

It wasn't a person. It wasn't anything human.

The thing was dragging itself across the floor, its movements jerky, unnatural. Its skin was stretched tight, pale, and covered in sores. Its eyes were wide, empty pits, staring into him with no recognition, no mercy.

Max tried to move, but his body refused to obey.

It came closer, dragging itself, and Max could do nothing but stare at it.

The last thing he felt was the coldness, a numbness that spread through his limbs.

Then, it was over.