You thank the medics as they unclip you from the shuttle’s harness. Your voice is still papery from vacuum exposure, but you manage, “Status of the station?” A paramedic with a cracked visor stickered ‘KIVA’ doesn’t slow her pace. “Code Red. Plasma leaks in Engineering corridors, intermittent power, comms stuttering, and several hull breaches. AI’s on lockdown protocols. Try not to breathe unfiltered air.”

They hustle you through the docking gantry into Arrivals. Red strobes pulse, and a decompression siren whoops—emergency shutters slam halfway as a gust yanks at your sleeves. A toolbox rattles down the corridor and shoots into the dark gap beyond the half-closed blast door. Someone shoves an oxygen mask against your face. The taste of tin and disinfectant floods your mouth as pressure equalizes with a metallic groan.

An engineer with grease-blackened gloves falls in beside you, talking fast. “If you can hold a mop, you can hold a foam can. We’ve got pink plasma fog seeping near the turbine room. Medbay’s triaging decompression headaches and burns. Janitor’s Closet might be depressurized—bring magboots if you’ve got ‘em.” He tosses you a compact foam extinguisher and a dented janicart passcard.

Across the corridor, signage flickers: Medbay left, Engineering right, Janitor’s Closet down a dim maintenance hall where the air shimmers with subtle heat ripples. The floor glistens with a smear of coolant, and a folding caution sign slides by on microgravity. The station groans, alive and unhappy, waiting for your next move.