Comfort in the ship

Oliver awoke, unable to tell how long it had been since his eyelids had last closed. The rest had been so profound that he had wondered if, yes, he was dead. But when he opened his eyes, he realised that yes, he was still in the room.

The emptiness that had been with him for so long, the constant pressure on his chest, the invisible scars of freezing nights in cold, hard caves—all that was gone. He did not feel the tightness of the stones under his back, nor the fear that had haunted him in the darkness, in every corner of the night, was completely gone.

Nor did he have traces of dirt on his skin, or the uneasiness that used to accompany him after days without a bath, without a safe haven. And most disconcertingly of all, he was not in his usual cave, surrounded by shadows. He did not feel the pressure of Raphael's watchful eyes, nor the incessant buzzing of the drones that protected him while he slept.

He was completely safe. And for a brief moment, the question settled in his mind: could anything be more terrifying than loneliness? The answer came with a deep growl from his empty stomach, the relentless reminder that hunger knows no solitude.

That was the one undeniable truth in his world, beyond any doubt. He had to eat. It was the only thing that could get him out of bed.

He didn't want to let go of the silk sheets. They enveloped him in a deep calm, a sense of well-being that he could not leave. This foreign luxury that others insisted he didn't deserve. He didn't think about what he did or didn't deserve. If something was his, he took it without question, without regret, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He sat up slowly, as if every muscle in his body was protesting the effort, after having been immobile for too long. Before he moved forward, a faint sound interrupted his attempted movement, a barely perceptible whisper: the door, sliding with a soft sigh. He stood still, as if the sound spoke to him. With a slight tremor, he climbed out of bed and approached the light, guided by something he couldn't quite understand. An inexplicable curiosity.

A bath.

Oliver paused, surprised, for he had not expected anything so imposing. Dark marble covered the walls, a tangible luxury he had never known so closely. Everything in the room exuded an undeniable luxury. The shower, inordinately large, stood in the centre, a sophisticated control panel above it, as if a simple mistake could trigger a death trap. White towels, neatly folded, waited patiently on a polished metal shelf. The air had a fresh scent, a citrus tinge that enveloped it in a cleanliness so pure it seemed unreal.

For a fleeting second, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining that this was his. That this could be his life. That there was no need to run, no need to hide.

But the fantasy collapsed before it could take hold, like a waking dream.

He shook his head, extinguishing all hope, and began to remove his clothes. The cloth fell to the floor with a muffled rustle, an insignificant sound in the vastness of silence. Steadily, he stepped into the shower.

The first jet of hot water hit her skin like a shock - a violent shock that made her muscles twitch. He did not allow himself the luxury of pleasure; it was an unbreakable rule, as ingrained as the need to breathe. But as the warmth seeped into his tense shoulders, slowly unravelling the knots of endless days, a shuddering exhale escaped his lips. Just a sigh. Just a moment.

He picked up the first vial within reach without even taking a moment to observe it. The substance that slid into his palm was denser than he had anticipated. Doubt crossed his mind: could he really trust anything without first making sure of its contents? Old habits, fears that had never quite gone away. But what did it matter now? If it was a trap, at least he would die with a more pleasant scent than the one he had carried for months.

When she was finished, her skin regained its natural tone, shedding the cloak of dirt that had covered it. She towelled herself dry, feeling her body begin to feel lighter. Her hair, though less sticky, fell casually across her forehead, slightly darker from the water.

He returned to the room, leaving a trail of drops to mark his passage, and went to the wardrobe. He opened it carefully and inside was a black suit with thin white stripes. Oliver frowned at the sight. It was not what he had expected.

He examined the fabric, letting its softness surprise him. Light, but incredibly resilient. He tugged gently at one sleeve, expecting it to give way or tear, but the garment remained firm. There were no wrinkles, no imperfections. Just perfection. With a slight shrug, he slid it over his body. The fit was immediate, so precise that the garment seemed to have been made exclusively for him.

He pulled on the short, pale blue jacket, its shoulders adorned with tiny stones that caught the dim light of the room and sparkled with a subtle extravagance that was somehow comforting. The diagonal pockets and flat collar gave it an air of distinction. He adjusted the black gloves, feeling the soft leather mould to his hands. His boots, with a peculiar design that evoked the lithe silhouette of a cat, made a faint crunch as he took his first step.

Leaving the room, he entered the corridors, where the slight swaying of the structure failed to disconcert or frighten him, as he had become accustomed to the slight turbulence of the ship. Unhurriedly, he made his way through the corridors. After several turns, he came to a large, unadorned room. The walls housed an array of technologically advanced weapons, some glowing with an unnatural glow, others pulsing with a heat that verged on the organic, as if alive, breathing in the gloom.

Raphael held the alien weapon with the confidence of someone who had spent his life among them. But Oliver knew he had never touched anything like it before. Yet there was no hesitation in his stance, no hesitation in his grip. It was as if he understood how it worked by instinct. As if he had always had it before he came to this place.

A screen floated in the air in front of him, spinning slowly. Oliver wasn't surprised by the data scrolling across the screen, but by the emojis flashing between them. Confusion. Annoyance. Amusement. Surprise. They changed every second, reacting to the environment as if the screen itself were... alive?

"What the hell is that?"

The screen, as if it understood the implied provocation, reacted immediately. Its bluish light flickered, almost mischievously, before settling into a calm, expectant hue. It waited. Watching.

Rafael exhaled, a mixture of frustration and resignation clenching his jaw. Without taking his eyes from the gun he still held, he spoke with the voice of one who has exhausted all patience. "I have no idea." His tone was dry. "It's been following me ever since I touched that damn screen."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, disbelief reflected in his crooked, mischievous grin. "So he's your boyfriend?"

Before Rafael could respond, the screen flashed forward. A smiley emoji flashed fleetingly before fading away.

"¦Yes, I am Kavumproli-Rafael's best boyfriend, even if he doesn't believe it 😉¦"

Rafael closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, resisting the urge to massage his temples. "It's not."

Oliver let out a low, almost amused chuckle. There were few things in life that he really enjoyed, but watching the ever stoic Rafael lose his composure in the face of an artificial intelligence with too much sense of humour was certainly one of them.

"I'll leave you alone. Enjoy yourselves."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked out with calculated calm, savouring every second of Raphael's palpable annoyance. The screen flickered quickly. The emoticons wavered between confusion and surprise before pausing in a bright cackle. Finally, the light stabilised.

"¦See you soon, Kavumproli-Oliver!¦"

But Oliver was already too far away to hear it. His mind was not there. His footsteps guided him precisely to the captain's cabin. As he crossed the threshold, his gaze fell on his prisoner. He was still exactly where he had left him.

Tied to the sturdy command chair, the humanoid figure showed neither the submission of a defeated man nor the resignation of someone who has accepted his fate. His back remained straight, his bearing majestic and his expression, inscrutable, was reminiscent of a calm, patient predator, biding his time.

Oliver narrowed his eyes in interest and crossed his arms as he watched him. "You're still too calm. Most people would be on the verge of despair by now." She leaned close to him, assessing him with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "That can only mean one of two things: either you're incredibly stupid... or you're smart." Her smile curved, sharp as a blade, though her eyes remained cold. "And I don't think it's the first option."

The prisoner smiled slowly and deliberately. There was no defiance in the gesture, but there was a latent danger, like a razor's edge hidden in the gloom. "We do not all react in the same way, Kavumproli."

Oliver clicked his tongue and cocked his head to one side in amusement. "Nice nickname." He leaned casually against the nearest console, not looking away. "And tell me... if I'm 'Kavumproli', what should I call you?"

The prisoner bowed his head with natural elegance. His long tail, thick and flexible, slid slowly across the saddle, a deliberate, almost lazy gesture.

"Kaelen Drathis."

Oliver arched an eyebrow and snorted, his interest waning only slightly. "I'll be honest... I have no idea how to pronounce that correctly." His smile widened, playful, with a calculated nuance. "So I'll tell you, Kael. Sounds good. Just like you."

Kaelen let out a low chuckle. A low, melodic sound, tinged with something Oliver couldn't quite define. Defiance, perhaps. Or simple entertainment.

"Fair enough."

Oliver hummed in response, a brief sound of agreement.