Aidan POV
I walked into the dinner hall, my feet heavy with exhaustion, joints stiff as though each step had been measured by decades rather than minutes. The morning had been long—routine cycles, ship maintenance, checks that never seemed to end. The voyeur was finally coming to a close, and the air in the hall hummed with anticipation. There was that spark—the one that comes over people when the end goal is finally in sight—light in their eyes, laughter in their voices. It felt good to be home, if only temporarily. Three weeks away had been long, and the warmth of the hall reminded me that life as a crew member carried its own highs and lows: victories, small joys, occasional losses.
The dining hall stretched two stories high, taller than the bamboo groves I once saw in the southern colonies. Tiny lights, like fireflies trapped in jars, flickered along the beams above. Voices bounced off polished wood and gleaming brass, overlapping, clashing, harmonizing—everything at once. The smell hit me first: alcohol, smoke, roasted meat, bread fresh from the oven. My stomach growled in protest, as though it were glad to be home too.
I moved through the crowd, ducking past crew members already deep in laughter or argument. Thud. I sank onto a stool with the quiet inevitability of a stone dropped into the sea. Tom, the cook, was already there, a plate of mutton steaming in front of him, a jug of frothy beer beside it.
"Aye! Aidan!" He bellowed, voice carrying across the hall like claws over stone. His long, braided red hair swung with the motion, and his sharp brown eyes glinted with recognition. The white apron over his compact, well-built frame remained startlingly clean despite the chaos around him—a mystery I would never solve.
Before I could reply, a voice rumbled from behind. "Aidan! How goes it?" Logan's footsteps were heavy, measured, as he slid onto the stool beside me. "Haven't seen you around much these past weeks."
I took a bite of the lamb before answering, savoring the tender meat and the rich juices that seemed to melt on my tongue. "You know how it is," I murmured, raising a brow.
He laughed, loud enough to make the nearby table chatter shift its rhythm, and shouted toward the kitchen. "Boss! I'll have what this old fart is having, and a mug of ale first!"
"Aye, coming right up!" came the cheerful reply.
"So… how has it been with you? Excited to see the young lads again, are we?" Logan asked, leaning back with an ease that belied the tension in my shoulders.
I let the silence stretch, a long yawn of thought, and sipped my drink. "Yeah… you could say that."
Ahh! He let out a laugh, the kind that made the wood shake under its intensity, and clapped me on the back. "I knew it," he said, still chuckling.
I shifted my gaze to the cup, the liquid reflecting the flickering lights above. My mind wandered. Logan leaned forward, voice lowering, eyes sharper. "Have you met the girl we found at the anomaly site? The phantom-blighted zone?"
"Hmm?" I muttered, distracted by a morsel of lamb that had somehow slid onto my lap.
Logan's grin widened, almost feral. "What girl? She's… interesting. Appearance-wise, she's… different."
I shook my head. "No, you fool. I haven't had the time. I'll inform the Misses, don't worry."
He choked on a laugh, nearly spilling ale across his shirt. "Well, she'll undergo evaluation when we arrive. But… she's strange, Aidan. There's something in her eyes—like she's… not fully present. Something dead, distant."
I frowned, swallowing a mouthful of mutton. "Psychological scarring? Maybe from her encounter with the terrors at the zone?"
Logan nodded solemnly, his fork idly playing with his own plate. "Could be. She referred to herself as 'we'—like those hive creatures the books talk about." His face flushed red, a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief.
Before I could respond, a quiet voice floated through the hall like a breeze through leaves.
"Good day, gentlemen."
My gaze shifted, landing on Miss Kanezumi. She stood near the entrance, a vision in white, her gown clean and flowing like freshly fallen snow. No one had noticed her approach. She gave a polite smile, subtle yet commanding, and her eyes flicked to Logan, who had already succumbed to sleep, face half-submerged in ale.
Her maid, Miss Mokuinu, followed, posture primed like a bamboo stalk, black and white yukata patterned like ink on white paper. Their presence seemed to still the chaos around them, drawing a soft hush across the hall.
Our eyes met. I felt it like a current: still waters staring back, steady and calm. Miss Kanezumi's small nod demanded acknowledgment, and I obliged.
"What would you recommend, dear sir?" she asked, breaking the silence with a voice both light and deliberate.
I squinted, taking in the immaculate grace of her stance and her gaze. "Hmm… a shepherd's pie, if you have not tried it already," I replied.
She inclined her head slightly, bowing in thanks before gliding away. Her maid followed, both moving with quiet efficiency toward the kitchen. I watched them go, the hum of the hall returning, yet somehow, I felt changed—like an old rhythm had been altered by a new, unfamiliar note.
I lifted my cup, letting the spirit within it warm my hands, my chest, and perhaps even my mind. "I might be getting too old for this," I thought, drawing a breath as though willing my own heart to steady.
The hall remained alive around me, full of voices, smells, and laughter—but now I noticed details I had missed before: the subtle gleam in Tom's eyes when he caught my gaze, the uneven flicker of light across the wooden beams, the smell of freshly baked bread mingling with the aroma of roasting lamb. Life went on, and yet, I felt a gentle shift in its rhythm, as though I were only half-dancing to its tune.