My internal monologue of staring blankly into the refrigerator was cut short by the chime of my comlink. It wasn't an incoming call, but a text notification that instantly brightened my mood. The laboratory finance division had processed my relocation allowance. Surprisingly, it was the equivalent of a full month's salary, even though the standard protocol was a fifty-percent advance issued at least two weeks into the rotation. Yet here it was—way ahead of schedule and significantly larger. Had Zargo been bitten by the generosity bug? Or was this his twisted way of tipping me for the housekeeping? Dinners, fresh coffee, laundered clothes. If I actually took the time to steam his outfits, would the man give me a performance raise? I threw a thoughtful look toward the laundry nook, where the washing machine had already transitioned to the drying cycle. I recalled spotting a high-end fabric steamer somewhere in there. My own clothes definitely required a thorough press. Speaking of clothes, I collapsed onto the living room sofa, fired up my retail app, and lost myself in my saved wish list. When I had originally flagged the items, I had been absolutely obsessed with them. Now, faced with an actual balance, I found myself hesitating. Stepping in front of the vanity mirror, I toggled the virtual try-on overlay and finally committed, moving several outfits into the shopping cart. The logistics network confirmed they’d be delivered to my porch by tomorrow evening. Riding that wave of dopamine, I whipped up some dough and baked a fresh batch of savory meat pies. Sealing them beneath the thermal dome, I retreated up the slats and collapsed onto my mattress. The domestic whirlwind had completely drained my battery, and I had really wanted to book a night tour of the planet’s wild Zelgalo canopy—an entire ancient grove of mature trees and saplings. There was a minor scheduling conflict, however: no tours were running tonight, the only available slot was tomorrow, and tomorrow was a core shift day for me. I cross-referenced my rotation calendar with the excursion schedule, only to discover that the nearest matching date was a full two weeks away. My excitement instantly deflated, but I booked a ticket regardless. Hearing heavy footsteps echo from the first floor a moment later, I opted against descending the slats. Instead, I flipped onto my stomach and let my upper body dangle lazily over the edge of the landing. Zargo clocked me immediately. “Is your objective tonight to attempt a dive from an even higher altitude?” he inquired dryly. “I just wanted to verify that you returned home solo,” I called down. “Because if you brought company, I am perfectly content to stay up here out of sight for the evening.” Given the sudden influx of credits on my account, my emotional compass was pointing firmly toward warm appreciation. As it turned out, the guy was remarkably generous as a director. The least I could do was stay out of his hair and read a book in my own quarters. “I don't follow.” I let out a soft, internal sigh. Communicating with extraterrestrial entities was a grueling exercise. They were fundamentally immune to human subtlety, but I figured it was worth another shot. “I stripped your bed and replaced it with clean sheets, Tan.” “Thank you.” Zargo targeted the pie dish, sliced off a massive portion, and bit into it like a starving predator. Shaking my head in amusement, I navigated the slats to join him, steeping a fresh pot of tea. “You could at least change out of your uniform first.” “My last meal was breakfast at this exact counter twelve hours ago,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “And frankly, it feels like you under-catered tonight.” I surveyed the counter space. Honestly, when I baked, my default setting was geared toward an entire household—specifically taking my brother Roma into account. My brother was a tall, heavily built security officer with an appetite to match his frame. Even though Zargo shared his general vertical height, Roma definitely carried more muscle mass. “That much workload today?” “Enough to keep the department drowning for another calendar year,” he confirmed, sighing. I refilled his tea mug and pulled out a stool to keep him company. I hadn't eaten an actual dinner either, so a shared meal made logical sense. Zargo systematically demolished the entire pie by himself. Even my brother had never managed to clear a dish that fast. Letting out a heavy exhale, the Sibian leaned back in his chair, thoroughly defeated by the food. I narrowed my eyes slightly. The man was currently in an uncharacteristically relaxed mood—a perfect window to disrupt his peace and get some cheap entertainment at his expense. “So... are we expecting another porch visit from your admirer tomorrow morning?” “Did you invite someone over?” “Me? I have zero social capital on this planet. Unless you count my brother’s impending deployment. He’s a pilot on a planetary security corvette.” Testing the waters by bringing up Roma, I locked my focus onto his facial features, analyzing his reaction. Absolutely nothing registered. Zero telemetry. It looked like his brain hadn't connected the dots between our secret housing arrangement and a heavily armed cop arriving in orbit. “Then why are you asking?” I stared at him. Was the man legitimately this oblivious, or was this a masterclass in deflection? “I was referring to Morana. She seems highly motivated to secure face-time with you outside of office hours. Look, if my presence under this roof cramps your style, I am perfectly capable of locking myself in the second-floor sector.” Zargo arched a silver eyebrow, processing the statement, before his features hardened into a deep scowl. “Where on earth are you getting these ridiculous theories?” “Did you completely miss her behavior yesterday? She was lurking on the porch, hyperventilating, practically sprinted after your ship's hatch, and stared at the sky like a tragic heroine after you cleared orbit. That, Tan, is textbook romance.” Sighing, I rested my elbows on the counter and settled my chin into my crossed hands. The dynamic was genuinely hilarious to me. How did a remarkably attractive guy manage to remain completely blind to a colleague throwing herself at his feet? Had the man never navigated a relationship before? Furthermore, as far as my xenobiology textbooks were concerned, Interions and Sibians were biologically compatible and capable of producing viable offspring. “Do you find this entertaining?” Zargo inquired darkly, mirroring my exact posture across the counter. “Not at all,” I lied smoothly. “I’m simply flagging the reality that if you wish to host a guest, just issue a protocol warning and I will execute an emergency evacuation.” Zargo reached across the space and flicked me square in the forehead. I let out an indignant hiss, aggressively rubbing the abused patch of skin. “Are you genuinely that starved for operational duties that your brain has resorted to fabricating gossip?” he scoffed. “I assumed the cleanroom workload was pushing you to your physical limits, but it appears a lack of structure is simply making you stupid.” My huff was decidedly louder this time. I had attempted to act as a mature, logistics-minded roommate, and the jerk had seamlessly flipped the script to make me look like an idiot. And the worst part? I didn't have a solid counter-argument. If he chose to maintain total ignorance, that was his prerogative. Still, Morana had clearly escalated to active tactical maneuvers, and she wasn't the type to abandon a mission after one failed deployment. I was positive she’d show up on our porch again, next time armed with a far more airtight pretext to force Zargo to unseal the perimeter lockout. “I’m simply alerting you to the fact that open hunting season has commenced on your bachelor status,” I shot back, turning on his heel and marching toward the laundry nook while still massaging my forehead. I needed to reclaim my primary uniform. I possessed exactly two sets, and both had been compromised by yesterday's shift. The steamer interface was standard, so I powered through my items before casting an eye on Zargo's white command uniform. On the off chance he required it for tomorrow, I gave it a crisp press as well. “Your gear is prepped. It’s in the nook.” Directing the words over my shoulder, I sprinted up the slats to my sector. Preparing my kit for the coming shift, I showered and collapsed onto the mattress. Tomorrow required extreme caution around Morana. The last thing I needed was for my mouth to outrun my filter and compromise our housing secret. Morning routine didn't require cooking; Zargo’s metabolic engine hadn't managed to incinerate the secondary pie over the night, so a few portions remained. I salvaged a slice for myself and resolved to clear the house ahead of schedule. There was a very real possibility Morana might stage an early intervention on the porch, hoping Zargo would grant her a seat in his private transport. I wisely chose not to share this strategic prediction with my roommate. Exiting the droplet structure, I made a break for the residential perimeter. I only dropped back down to a standard walking pace once I reached the main civilian thoroughfare. Honestly, the architectural layout of Sanbili was bizarre. The residential structures were separated by massive expanses of open water. The public avenues were essentially floating landmasses, anchored together by networks of suspension walkways that hovered over the lavender ocean on localized air cushions. The trek to the minor spaceport spanned exactly thirty minutes, allowing me to preserve my credit balance while logging some much-needed physical conditioning. I reached the boarding deck exactly ten minutes before the commuter shuttle cleared arrival protocols, and the absolute first entity I spotted was Morana. She had gone all out with her wardrobe today; her white research jumpsuit was tailored so aggressively tight it looked to be at critical risk of structural seam failure. She had also applied a vibrant, stark crimson lip shade. The moment her optics locked onto me, her posture stiffened, radiating the distinct energy of someone who had survived a massive argument with me prior to the weekend. “Morning,” I offered casually, resolving to completely ignore her hostile aura. In all likelihood, her mood had absolutely nothing to do with my existence. This was entirely on Zargo and his total lack of romantic comprehension. “Was yesterday your designated rest cycle?” Morana bypassed the greeting entirely, her tone clipped. “How did you occupy your time?” “Standard routine. I’m still settling into the new colony. Just housekeeping, laundry, and meal prep.” “And where exactly is your residential sector located?” Okay, this was rapidly transitioning into a formal interrogation. There was zero statistical probability she had spotted me during my brief excursion along the shoreline yesterday. I had explicitly scanned the perimeter to ensure total solitude—specifically targeting her known patterns. Had she managed to harbor actual suspicions? What baseline data was she operating on? “Over that way,” I replied, waving a deliberately vague hand toward the horizon behind me. “What about your sector?” “Same direction,” she answered flatly. I flashed her a pleasant, empty smile, a creeping suspicion taking root that she might have clocked me through a viewport. I needed to pull up the colony registry to map her exact coordinates. Just in case. The arrival of the shuttle was a literal lifesaver. I had zero desire to field any further inquiries. Sprinting down the aisle, I claimed a seat directly adjacent to the main corridor, ensuring no one could easily slide into the block next to me. Suddenly, a new theory clicked into place: What if Morana was the explicit variable behind my social isolation at the facility? If she harbored a pathologically protective jealousy toward every new female recruit on the payroll, she could have easily circulated some toxic narrative among the crew before I even clocked in. Furthermore, the entire deck knew I was on a work-study grant. What if they assumed I carried an undocumented connection to Tana Nimba—and by extension, a personal line to Zargo? The irony was staggering: we were tearing our hair out trying to keep our shared housing a total secret, while the facility staff had likely already convicted us of an office affair. I resolved to test my hypothesis in real-time. A Sibian woman was sharing our shuttle row—a scientist I had actively tracked during the previous shifts. She was a fascinating entity; a data analyst who apparently preferred to process telemetry from a fully horizontal position. Wherever her files updated, that became her bed; she’d casually stretch out on a corridor floor if a dataset required immediate attention. Catching her eye as she glanced up, I flashed a genuine smile. She mirrored the expression instantly. Before I could build on the contact, however, a high-priority alert pinged her display, and a silver visor slid down over her optics. I leaned back into the headrest, thoroughly satisfied. The data was clear: communication was entirely possible. I simply needed to initiate contact on my own terms. I’d corner her for a coffee break before the shift concluded. My baseline mood skyrocketed. Why wait for an introduction when I could simply introduce myself? I hadn't spotted any other human assets on the orbital deck so far. Perhaps the facility culture simply didn't observe formal introductions? If an entity required your data, they’d flag you. It made sense; the entire staff was hyper-focused on their respective career metrics. The absolute first item on my agenda upon clearing the station airlock was inspecting the cleanroom. Analyzing the root matrices of the saplings, I confirmed the moisture levels had dropped below optimal parameters—though it wasn't a critical failure yet. Sealing the primary cleanroom doors, I opened the glass containment tubes, established the mechanical limits for the hardware, and activated the localized misting array. Under their native atmospheric shower, the localized Zelgalo saplings flared beautifully, their violet foliage unfurling until they resembled exotic, shifting blossoms. I captured a handful of high-res holograms, fully intending to flash them to Zargo later. After waiting out the scheduled cycle, I replenished the water reservoirs and sealed the glass enclosures. Concluding the primary maintenance block, I verified the core metrics on the main terminal. The Zelgalo were adapting flawlessly, matching their native planetary growth rates. I could officially take pride in my work. Zargo was clearly monitoring my cleanroom telemetry via the security mainframe; the absolute second my diagnostics finalized, a text pinged my display requesting my presence in his office. I had already clocked a couple of curious eyes tracking the trees through the corridor panels. A pair of technicians had actually paused to capture a selfie against the glass. Ensuring the cleanroom was securely locked down with my personal biometric code, I hurried toward the command deck. The staff tracked my progress with intense, unblinking stares. I was intensely grateful I had remembered to carry my primary datapad, logging dummy data updates on the move to maintain the illusion of being summoned for a severe operational reprimand. The second I breached the command perimeter, the double doors slid open automatically, bypassing the standard entry chime entirely. The man had definitely been tracking my exact coordinates on his monitors! “You requested my presence, Tan?” I had zero desire to prolong a closed-door meeting with him. What if the crew misinterpreted the dynamic? Morana, for instance, would have a total meltdown. “Take a look.” Zargo slid a compact case across the desk, bearing a striking resemblance to a standard wireless earbud enclosure. The reality clicked instantly: these were the surveillance tabs. Following his prompt, I unlatched the case to inspect the contents. There were exactly six units. Microscopic, styled to look like mundane metallic shirt buttons. “I can plant these seamlessly,” I murmured, assessing the hardware. “But what network layout are we routing the feed to? Would a direct link to a personal comlink be more secure?” “A wise approach. Let’s sync our comm-channels.” Zargo pulled up his personal QR code and transmitted his direct contact data to my terminal. I accepted the transfer instantly, and on a sudden, reckless whim, I forwarded him the high-res holograms of the flourishing Zelgalo saplings. “They look stunning under the native misting array, don't they?” “Yeah,” Zargo agreed curtly, his gaze fixed on the display. Well, what exactly did I expect, sending pictures of alien flora to a hardwired geneticist? I was treating it like an affectionate, colorful bouquet, while he was evaluating it strictly through the lens of genetic markers and corporate projections.