Juc-877 ❲RECENT — 2024❳

The humming spiked. The lights flickered. On the viewing deck, inmates screamed—the observation window showed not stars, but teeth . A shape that had no geometry, pressing against the hull like a fist against wet silk.

The Mourning Star lurched. Alarms blared. The shape was inside now—not in the corridors, but in the air , in the minds of the crew. Men and women began weeping, clawing at their ears, whispering in a language that had no vowels. juc-877

He looked up. “What’s ‘temporal drift’?” The humming spiked

The designation was simple: . No name, no history, just a barcode on a cryo-pod and a slot in the penal fleet’s ledger. but in the air