Mercifully, I didn't have to help unload the ship. Not that it would have been physically demanding, but the real nightmare with a grav-platform was steering the damn thing through doorways; the hover-cart seemed hardwired to clip every single frame it passed. A couple of dockworkers were already on hand to handle the heavy lifting. The moment I staggered out of the cargo bay, I slumped against the wall to catch my breath. My body was definitely not built for those kinds of G-forces. The second the room stopped spinning, I realized I had to scramble after the workers. They were already wheeling the saplings off on their grav-platforms in some unknown direction. The glass containment tubes were loaded into a lift, leaving absolutely zero room for me. I had no choice but to wait for the next ride, anxiously tracking their ascent from the ground floor. They wheeled the trees into a glass-paneled cleanroom positioned dead center, right beneath the station's main dome. Talk about zero privacy. I was going to be visible from every single angle on the deck. Even though the floor itself was opaque, I made a mental note: absolutely no skirts. The moment the lift returned, I sprinted up to join the trees. I couldn't afford to leave them unsupervised for a second longer. These plants were notoriously delicate. No wonder they’d dragged me out of bed at the crack of dawn. There was a very real chance that if I had shown up at a normal hour, I’d be clocking in to a trio of dead saplings. My anxiety only settled once I hooked up the diagnostic equipment. After calibrating the systems and ensuring the containment tubes were securely locked into place, I slid down onto the floor to catch my breath. Looking around, I realized the rest of the facility staff had finally trickled in. I didn't get to sit for long; the Senior Lab Director chimed in, requesting a full genomic readout of all three specimens. I pulled out my case of nano-bot capsules and released one into the first tube. The capsule dissolved instantly, and the nano-bots—practically invisible to the naked eye—deployed to harvest the data. A shifting holographic strand of the genome immediately materialized on my screen. The second the reconstruction finalized, I repeated the process for the second and third trees. Only then did I get a brief window to breathe and head downstairs to forage for some flavorless, low-molecular sustenance. Glancing across the floor, I confirmed that Nasferi-rani-Tarin wouldn't be needing me anytime soon. He was currently huddled over a terminal with Zargo. The two of them were bent over a shared interface, actively debating something and repeatedly gesturing at the display. The experiment had officially transitioned to live-tissue trials—a high-stakes, incredibly volatile phase where every variable mattered. Stepping off the lift, I slipped right past them, opting not to interrupt their brainstorming with a meaningless greeting. Zargo looked like a completely different person in a professional setting. Stripped of his mocking smirk and the playful spark in his eyes, he actually looked older. Imposing, even. His entire communication style had shifted, too. Around me, he usually acted like a petty schoolboy looking for a reaction; here, he was suddenly a composed, authoritative professional. After choking down my synthetic lunch, I returned to my glass sanctuary. Perching on a small ledge, I pulled up the extensive manuals to read up on the saplings. Honestly, I already knew the theory inside out. The absolute nightmare of the Zelgalo lay in the fact that they were the literal genesis of Sanbili's atmosphere, and they were biologically incapable of thriving on any other world. Judging by the data from the digital simulation, the team had already achieved groundbreaking results in stabilizing the genetic modifications. By the time my shift wrapped up and it was time to head home, the artificial high of the stimulant tablet began to wear off. I could feel my energy bottoming out with every passing minute. I nearly passed out cold on the commuter shuttle, navigating the journey back to the house on pure, stubborn survival instinct. The last thing I wanted was to feature on the local planetary news feeds as a vagrant caught sleeping on the pavement. But the absolute second I crossed our threshold, my battery hit zero. I didn't even have the stamina to make it to the living room sofa, let alone attempt the vertical climb to the second floor. “Did we get robbed?” Zargo gave my shoulder another rough shake, which was jarring enough to convince me that I wasn't having a weirdly realistic dream. “I’m not moving,” I warned him, my voice muffled against the floor. The Sibian stepped right over my collapsed form and walked into the house. He returned almost immediately, dropping into a crouch beside me. “Are you sure you weren't mugged? Someone cracked you over the head, which is why you're sprawling on the floor with the front door wide open?” Marshalling a monumental amount of willpower, I pushed myself up slightly to assess my physical situation. Technically, I hadn't made it all the way inside; one of my feet was still wedged across the threshold, which had prevented the automated door from sealing shut. “The stimulant crash hit me,” I mumbled. I desperately wanted to close my eyes and drift back under, but the Sibian refused to stop shaking me. Gripping my arms, he dragged my torso inward a few inches, and a satisfying metallic click echoed through the foyer. The door was finally locked. Perfect. Now I could go back to sleep. If he would just release my arms. Zargo let out a heavy sigh, and my equilibrium suddenly shifted. The sensation of being lifted completely woke me up, and I found myself staring blankly at his face. He didn't play the hero for long, though—he unceremoniously dumped me onto the living room sofa. Before I could even process the rough landing, I plummeted straight into a deep, dark sleep. Sometime during the night, the rich, savory aroma of food drifted into my consciousness. My stomach let out a demanding, violent growl, but my mind could only manage a theoretical attempt at standing up before I slipped right back into the void. Morning arrived far too early and with a vengeance. Sleeping on a stiff sofa using your own forearm as a makeshift pillow is a one-way ticket to physical misery. Sitting up, I tried to roll out the agonizing kink in my neck before massaging my deadened limbs, staring gloomily at the stairs. I desperately wanted to be in my actual bed, but just looking at that steep loft ladder made me feel nauseous and dizzy beforehand. Then, that same incredible aroma hit my nose again. Resistance was entirely futile. I crept over to the kitchen counter and lifted the thermal dome. Resting beneath it was a perfectly seared cut of meat paired with a generous side of grilled vegetables. I had cleared nearly half the plate before my sleep-deprived brain paused to ask the million-credit question: who actually cooked this? The scent had literally featured in my dreams. Once I finished eating, my exhaustion flared up double-time, and I stared longingly at the ceiling. Maybe I should just purchase a standard rope ladder and hang it from the landing? Anything had to be better than this one. Sighing, I forced myself to get a grip and scaled the rungs, purely motivated by the thought of being reunited with a proper pillow and blanket. If the first half of my morning was defined by aches and stiffness, the second half arrived in a wave of freezing cold water. I bolted upright, got hopelessly tangled in my sheets, and wiped out onto the floor. Snarling, I scrambled to my feet and glared daggers at Zargo. The jerk was standing over me, rocking a thoroughly delighted smirk. “I don't recall approving a day off,” he announced with insufferable smugness. “Was that really necessary?!” I gestured wildly at my ruined bed; the mattress and sheets were literally dripping wet. Zargo merely snorted, setting an empty metal pot down on the floor. “Your shuttle launches in exactly one hour.” I checked my link and let out a strangled shriek. I was completely out of time! I had exactly fifteen minutes to get out the door if I wanted to catch the transit link. “Don’t forget to put some clothes on,” he added dryly. My brain scrambled to remember when exactly I’d stripped down. Realizing I was currently standing in front of my boss in nothing but a tiny tank top and underwear, I snatched up the wet corner of the blanket, trying in vain to shield myself. “We had an agreement! Stay out of each other's private quarters!” “Did we?” he shot back effortlessly, turning on his heel and glibly jogging down the steps. In a fit of pure, unadulterated rage, I hurled the wet blanket down after him. I didn't have a spare second to stand here screaming and hashing out boundaries. I shoved my limbs into the first uniform I could pull from the wardrobe and bolted for the exit. In my mad dash, I completely missed a rung on the ladder and took a painful tumble. Howling in agony, I scrambled out of the house and sprinted toward the transit stop. For some reason, I had the entire commuter shuttle to myself today. Even at the orbital facility, about half the standard research staff was conspicuously absent. Suspecting I might have missed a planetary holiday, I fired up my official rotation calendar, only to confirm my own weekend didn't kick off until tomorrow. Thank God. After that stimulant crash, I desperately needed to log twelve hours of sleep and fix my circadian rhythm. After running a diagnostic check on the saplings and verifying there were no adverse genetic shifts, I hydrated them using a reservoir of treated planetary water. Once that was done, it was back to the grind at the primary terminal to print holographic drives. The new data batch carried a priority tag for the "Senior Tan" along with a specific office routing number. Morana was nowhere to be found today, so I had to go hunting for the office on my own. Navigating the perimeter of the upper deck, I finally located a set of double doors. They were the only non-transparent panels on the entire level and lacked any sort of numerical designation. There was only one person who could occupy an office like that: the Senior Tan. Thrilled to finally offload the heavy drives, I pressed my palm against the glass sensor to announce my presence. The panel slid open with a soft chime. I pushed my way through, steering the grav-platform in backward to keep it steady. “I have the holographic data readouts for you.” “File them in the console rack,” a jarringly familiar voice commanded. No way. This was statistically impossible. He didn't even work on the orbital station! Why would Zargo intentionally sabotage his own quality of life by commuting up here? I turned around in slow motion, and sure enough, there he was. We didn't just share a house; we shared a literal office floor! And here I thought he’d exiled me to the upper atmosphere just to keep me out of his sight. “Understood.” Zargo kept his eyes glued to his primary monitor, occasionally glancing down at the floating interfaces flashing off his personal comlink. Initially, I assumed he was putting on a dramatic show of ignoring my existence. But as I drew closer, I noticed Nasferi was actively flooding his feed with real-time analytics. Opting not to break his focus, I quietly slotted the drives into the rack and turned to slip out. “Astra, fetch me a coffee,” he requested, his eyes never leaving the screen. A sudden wave of anxiety hit me. Had he skipped breakfast this morning? More importantly, who had actually cooked that incredible steak I’d devoured in a daze last night? Had he seriously made it himself? I suppose it made sense; the guy had lived alone for a long time. The only thing that didn't add up was the vegetables. Zargo didn't touch greens. After brewing a fresh cup at the breakroom dispenser, I returned to his desk. Zargo had powered down his displays and was currently leaning back in his executive chair. “Your coffee.” I set the cup down before him and immediately took a cautious step back. “Thank you.” I froze, legitimately wondering if my ears were playing tricks on me. Did he just thank me, or did he genuinely not realize it was me? I knew better than to ask him to repeat it; he definitely wouldn't. “How are you adjusting to my laboratory?” “It's... engaging,” I replied, managing to keep it mostly factual. At least now I had actual living tissue to monitor and structured responsibilities. On my first day, I had felt like a useless ghost taking up space. “Excellent. I expect you to bring your A-game. Don't let the Zelgalo die on my watch.” “I will do everything within my power.” He sounded like he seriously doubted my capabilities. No doubt Nasferi-rani-Tarin had assumed my sudden deployment to the cleanroom carried the explicit endorsement of the Senior Tan. That would explain the pre-dawn summons. Now Zargo was second-guessing the placement. I bet when he’d impulsively signed off on my transfer in a fit of irritation, he hadn't anticipated the Director actually giving me live tissue to manage. “I certainly hope so. Let’s go inspect them.” Zargo stood up, grabbing his coffee cup on the move, and gestured toward the door. And there it was—my first official evaluation. Despite my confidence that I’d calibrated the containment loops flawlessly, my pulse started racing. During my brief absence, it looked like the saplings had become the main attraction on the floor. A chunk of the facility staff had apparently never seen live Zelgalo specimens in the flesh. As a result, the entire deck had bottlenecked right outside my cleanroom corridor. It was a good thing I’d locked the security terminal; otherwise, they’d be milling around inside the containment zone. I froze, caught off guard by the crowd. Zargo pushed past me, and the second the staff clocked the Senior Tan, the crowd evaporated into thin air. Zargo pressed his palm against the scanner—which was flashing an aggressive security red!—and bypassed the lockout effortlessly. He initiated a rigorous check, running through the diagnostics on the main terminals, inspecting the cable runs, the fluid lines, the glass containment tubes, and the cleanroom's internal atmospheric seals before circling back to the main interface. “Everything is optimal.” A pleased smile broke across his face. A massive wave of relief washed over me; I could swear his entire demeanor softened. Professional competence—that was the golden key to his respect. I needed to leverage this to fix our disastrous dynamic back at the house. I opened my mouth to ask him what he wanted for dinner, but caught myself just in time. Every single vocalization and movement on this station was actively logged by security feeds. What if internal affairs reviewed the logs? Or the security division? The last thing I needed was them flagging a personal relationship between a new recruit and the Senior Tan. Say one wrong thing within earshot of a live mic, and you'd find your contract terminated before nightfall. Zargo walked out without a word of farewell. His comlink had chirped, and judging by the deep scowl that instantly warped his features, the conversation was going to be thoroughly unpleasant. Turning back to my station, I verified one final time that the saplings' biometrics were stable, grabbed my master datapad—which was actively mirroring the real-time telemetry from the nano-bots—and hurried out to catch the planet-bound shuttle.