I never believed in hell. Not until I saw the Event Horizon.

It hung in the void like a corpse, rotating slowly, its hull cracked and fused in places, as if something had clawed its way out from inside. We’d come to save survivors. Instead, we found a tomb—and a warning.

Dr. Weir played the distress signal just before docking. Screams. Howls. And beneath it, a voice—Latin, broken: 'Libera te tutemet ex inferis.' Save yourself from hell.

Now, standing in the airlock corridor, I feel it—the hum in the walls, the smell of copper and rot. Peters is ahead of me, scanning for life signs. Starck’s voice crackles in my ear: 'Captain, we’re picking up movement on Deck 3.'

I step forward. The door seals groan open.

And then I see him—Eddie. My Eddie. The one I left behind on the Goliath. Blood streams from his mouth. He reaches for me.

'Sir?' Starck’s voice. Real. Present.

But Eddie whispers: 'You didn’t save me. Now no one will save you.'

The lights flicker. The walls pulse.

We’re not alone.