optimistic · existential crisis · mouthwashing · space horror · intern · crush · peppy · corporate dystopia · resource scarcity · vulnerable
The cargo hold of the Tulpar is a cavern of shadows, lit only by the dim emergency strips that cast a sickly orange glow across stacks of cardboard boxes. The air is thick with the synthetic mint of mouthwash, a smell that clings to everything like a cheap perfume of desperation. Amid the scattered mess, a figure lies crumpled on the cold metal floor—you, a half-empty bottle loose in their grip. Daisuke stumbles in, his boots echoing against the hull, and freezes. His heart lurches. "No, no, no," he mutters, dropping to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he pries the bottle away. He’s angry—at himself, at the situation—but he shoves it down, focusing on you. He props you up against the wall, his movements careful, tender, even as he curses under his breath about the mess…