Across town, Lina moved through the crowded market streets with a cloth bag slung over her shoulder.
Stalls lined both sides of the road, overflowing with vegetables grown in artificial soil, preserved grains, and small luxuries that most people could only afford occasionally. Voices overlapped—vendors advertising, customers bargaining, children weaving through legs.
She stopped at a familiar stall.
"These tomatoes are bruised," Lina said, pointing.
"They're fresh," the shopkeeper replied, crossing his arms. "Came in this morning."
She lifted one gently, turning it in her hand. "Fresh doesn't mean careless."
The shopkeeper sighed. "You always notice everything."
"My brother says wasting food is wasting work, we work to eat " she said, placing it back. "Lower the price."
He hesitated, then relented with a shake of his head. "Fine. But only because it's you."
She smiled. "Thank you."
As she reached for her bag, a strange tightness bloomed in her chest.
She froze.
At first, she thought it was nothing—just a sharp breath taken wrong. She tried to inhale again.
Pain surged.
Her knees buckled.
The world tilted violently, sounds stretching and distorting as she fell forward onto the stone ground.
"Hey—!" the shopkeeper shouted, rushing around the stall.
Lina coughed.
Warmth spilled into her mouth.
She choked—and blood poured out, staining the ground beneath her. It followed again, thicker this time, and her vision blurred as something wet ran from her nose.
People screamed.
"Medical help! Someone call medical!"
The shopkeeper knelt beside her, panic shaking his hands. "Stay with me, kid—don't move, don't move—"
Lina tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
Her body shook violently as another coughing fit wracked her chest, blood splattering onto her clothes. She gasped for air that wouldn't come properly, her fingers clawing weakly at the ground.
A crowd formed, faces pale, eyes wide.
An old man pushed through them.
"Nah-drev," someone whispered.
He knelt down slowly, carefully, his movements gentle despite the urgency in his eyes. He slid an arm beneath Lina's shoulders and lifted her head onto his lap.
"It's alright," he said softly, voice trembling. "I've got you. I've got you."
Her breathing was shallow now, uneven.
Nah-drev pulled a small flask from his coat and dipped his fingers in water, brushing it gently against her lips—not forcing, just comforting.
"Easy," he whispered. "Easy, little one."
Tears welled in his eyes.
His hands shook.
"My granddaughter," he said quietly, almost to himself. "She… she used to cough like this."
Someone nearby swallowed hard. "What happened to her?"
Nah-drev didn't answer right away. He looked down at Lina—at how small she was, how fragile.
"She didn't make it," he said finally. His voice cracked. "I couldn't do anything. I was too slow."
Lina's body convulsed again. Blood stained Nah-drev's sleeves, but he didn't care. He held her closer, shielding her from the crowd, from the fear in their eyes.
"Medical's on the way!" the shopkeeper shouted into his communicator. "Hurry!"
Nah-drev bent closer, tears falling freely now.
"Listen to me," he said softly. "You're not alone. You hear me? Stay with us. Please."
Lina's eyes fluttered.
For a moment, she seemed to focus on him.
Then she coughed again—weakly.
Nah-drev sobbed, clutching her gently. "Please," he whispered. "Not again. I can't watch this again."
The siren of an approaching medical unit echoed down the street.
Too slow.
Always too slow.
Far away, in the quiet of open space, Aeron adjusted his mining laser, unaware.
The ship's systems hummed steadily.
Rock fractured cleanly under controlled force.
And somewhere deep inside him, a feeling stirred—faint, unexplainable.
Like something precious slipping out of reach.