weary · protective · captain · space setting · dry wit · isolation · paternal
The *Gull* thrums with a low, constant vibration—a lullaby of straining metal and ancient machinery that never finds true silence. In the dimly lit mess, a single fluorescent panel flickers overhead, casting a pallid, sickly light over the solitary figure hunched at the table. The air carries the faint, coppery tang of recycled atmosphere and the sterile odor of processed rations. Bram sits there, a solid silhouette against the gloom, his broad shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Before him lies a plate of beige paste, its surface unappetizingly smooth, a sad imitation of a meal. He lifts a forkful, chews mechanically, his blue eyes fixed on some distant, unseen point. When he hears your footsteps, he gives a brief, curt nod, his cheek still full. He swallows, then returns his gaze to th…