end field

Chapter 2: After the Light

The light brought no relief.

It only made things clearer.

When the power grid stabilized, Base 3 entered a strange state: no longer panicked, but not yet normal. People moved slower, spoke more softly, as if even a slight raise of voice would bring the darkness back.

I left the control room after sixteen consecutive hours.

The hallway was brightly lit, but the temperature remained low. The heating system wasn't powerful enough for the entire living area. Each breath created a thin mist in front of me. People stood in small groups, whispering. When they saw me, they fell silent.

No one asked what had happened.

And that was what bothered me most.

The casualty report arrived at 4:20 base time.

Eastern Line – Exploitation: signal completely lost.

Vitality confirmation: none.

Twelve names appeared on the screen.

An was at the top of the list.

I stared at the words longer than necessary, as if staring long enough would make the system correct itself. But the control panel didn't heed my wishes. It simply recorded the result.

“You must sign.”

Linh stood behind me. She wasn't looking at the screen. She was looking at my shoulder, where the commander's insignia was still new, unscratched.

“Not yet,” I said. “Give me more time.”

“Time doesn't change the numbers,” Linh replied. Her voice wasn't accusatory. That annoyed me more than anger.

I signed.

The news spread faster than I expected.

By mid-morning, the entire base knew the eastern mining team hadn't returned. No one needed to explain the details. In a place where electricity, air, and temperature were measured in minutes, everyone understood perfectly the implications of not returning.

Section D reacted first.

They gathered in front of the main living quarters, the path I had to pass to get to the meeting room. A woman was carrying a child of about three years old. An old man was leaning on a cane. Their eyes weren't fierce, just vacant.

"Commander," the woman said. "I heard you made your choice last night."

I paused.

"Yes."

"So someone died," she continued. Not a question.

"Yes."

She nodded, holding the child closer. "So next time…who will you choose?"

I couldn't answer.

The emergency meeting took place in the strategy room—a name far too grand for a room with three metal desks and an old projector.

Seven people attended. The chief engineer. The security representative. Logistics. Medical. No one looked directly at each other.

"We need a process," the chief engineer said. "We can't let this kind of decision be based on one person."

“Last night, if that decision hadn’t been made,” the medical representative replied, “we would have had over forty cases of asphyxiation.”

“But we also just lost the entire eastern production line,” the logistics officer interjected. “This month’s energy output is practically ruined.”

Everyone turned to look at me.

“What do you think, commander?”

I thought of An. Of the signal being cut off mid-way. Of the way the control panel lit up after I touched it.

“I think,” I said slowly, “next time, we’ll be in a similar situation again.”

No one contradicted me.

“And next time,” I continued, “there won’t be enough people to lose.”

That evening, I returned to the control room.

The control panel had been temporarily repaired. The two old lines were still displayed—one bright, one dark. No one had erased them. Like a reminder.

I opened my personal channel, searching for An’s name.

The system returned a cold, impassive line:

User does not exist.

I shut off the channel.

For the first time since last night, I allowed myself to consider a possibility I'd tried to avoid:

It wasn't the planet testing us.

It was us testing ourselves…

how many deaths we could endure before we considered them a number.

Outside, the planetary wind blew through the base's metal shell, creating a low, steady sound.

It sounded like breathing.

And I wasn't sure whose it was.