Juc-877 -

The designation was simple: . No name, no history, just a barcode on a cryo-pod and a slot in the penal fleet’s ledger.

One night, Kael found Seven in the engine bay, her palm pressed against the reactor’s lead shielding. The metal was warm. It should have been freezing.

Kael grabbed Seven’s arm. “How do we stop it?” juc-877

“Step back,” he ordered.

The Mourning Star was not a prison. It was a garbage scow that limped between dead stars, hauling toxic slag from mining colonies to incinerators. The inmates were the dregs of seven systems—murderers, cannibalistic cultists, broken androids. JUC-877, soon known simply as “Seven,” was assigned to the sludge filters. She worked in silence for three weeks. The designation was simple:

In the end, Kael made a choice. He jettisoned the reactor core—with Seven still pressed against it. As the core tumbled into the void, the shape hesitated. It turned, almost curious, and followed her down.

“JUC-877. Convicted: Unauthorized temporal drift. Sentence: Permanent exile aboard the Mourning Star . Additional notes: Extremely dangerous. Do not engage in conversation.” The metal was warm

The humming spiked. The lights flickered. On the viewing deck, inmates screamed—the observation window showed not stars, but teeth . A shape that had no geometry, pressing against the hull like a fist against wet silk.