A week.
Seven days since I had crash-landed on this godforsaken planet.
The first two had been the worst. My body had still been recovering from the landing, the stiffness of my limbs reminding me that no amount of training could fully prepare someone for a crash of that magnitude. The bruises, the soreness, the exhaustion—none of it mattered. I was here. I was alive.
And I had work to do.
Survival had become routine. My rations were limited, but I stretched them as best as I could. Water, oxygen, food—everything was accounted for with the cold precision of someone who knew that one miscalculation meant death.
At night, when the Martian cold seeped through the metal of my ship, I forced myself into a restless sleep, dreaming of Earth. Of Sienna and Camille. Of streets filled with light and sound. Of air that didn't taste like recycled systems and desperation.
But in the morning, I woke.
And I walked.
