You shoulder through the dim maintenance hall, foam extinguisher clunking against your thigh. Heat ripples distort the red strobe, and the floor tiles sweat coolant that beads and skitters in near-microgravity. Your loaner oxygen mask stings your cheeks with cold air, tasting like pennies and antiseptic. Somewhere deeper, something metallic screams—a shutter trying to close on a bent track.

The Janitor’s Closet door waits under a flickering hazard strip. Its status panel jitter-blinks: ATMOS ALERT — 8 kPa — Flammables Detected — Access Restricted. Through the small armored viewport, you make out a mop drifting like a sad comet, a belt of spray bottles orbiting a dented janicart, and—sweet saints of sanitation—magboots clipped to the ceiling rail by a prayer and a bungee cord. A faint violet sheen clings inside the room like tinted fog, refusing to settle.

You swipe the dented passcard. The panel chirps and offers two buttons through the static: CYCLE (SLOW) and EMERGENCY OVERRIDE. The door handle is warm, and something tickles your calves as air whispers under the threshold. If you add oxygen too fast, that plasma haze will decide to become a star and you’ll be the wick.

“Janitor, closet’s on the maintenance loop,” crackles a voice on common—Atmos tech, hissing sibilants, probably a lizard. “Cycle slow and foam the gap, or you’ll decorate the corridor.” The comms stutter, then die. Far down the hall, a shutter thumps and rebounds, and your caution sign drifts lazily past like a doomed satellite.

You brace one hand on the bulkhead, thumb hovering over the options. The gear you need is right there, waiting to either save you—or ignite you.