I had always been a man who moved forward.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
So, after that morning in the hotel café—after shaking Mark's hand and sealing my fate—I did exactly that.
I moved forward.
Week One: The First Steps
Preparation ca in waves, each more demanding than the last. My schedule was relentless—physical conditioning, survival training, mission briefings, and technical simulations designed to break lesser n.
I adapted.
By the end of the first week, I had already surpassed most of the official astronaut candidates in the physical assessnts. The weightlifting drills were laughable. The endurance tests, even in simulated low-oxygen environnts, felt familiar. My ti as a firefighter had forged a body that could endure stress beyond most people's limits.
The instructors took notice.
And Elliot—Elliot followed.
He wasn't required to be in half the training sessions I attended. But he showed up anyway.
On the third day, after a particularly brutal zero-gravity maneuvering exercise, he landed clumsily beside , panting hard, his face red from exertion.
"You—" He sucked in a breath. "You—don't—stop."
I steadied myself against the handrails, unbothered by the dizziness that ca from spinning mid-air. "And?"
He wiped sweat from his forehead, eyes flicking to like he was seeing sothing unreal. "How do you just keep going?"
I studied him for a mont. Then, calmly, I said, "Because forward is the only direction."
Elliot let out a short, breathless laugh. "That's—" He stopped himself. Shook his head. His expression shifted from disbelief to sothing heavier. "No... that's right, isn't it?"
I nodded.
"You're not afraid of breaking?" His voice was quieter now, almost uncertain.
I reached out, gripping the handrail beside him. The weightlessness made my movents smooth, deliberate. "You fear breaking because you still see yourself as sothing fragile."
He stared at , wide-eyed.
"You want to be strong, Elliot?" I asked.
He swallowed. "Yes."
"Then stop hesitating."
His breath hitched.
"Every second you question yourself is a second wasted," I continued. "There is no use in looking back. No use in second-guessing. What is ahead of you?"
His fingers curled against the fabric of his suit. "The mission."
"And what cos after?"
His voice was quieter now. "The future."
I inclined my head. "And what is behind you?"
He hesitated.
Then, finally, he said, "Nothing."
I nodded once. "Then walk forward."
Elliot exhaled, sothing in his posture shifting—his shoulders squaring, his gaze sharpening.
And in that mont, I knew—
He understood.
Week Three: Owning the Mont
One evening, Elliot found at the hotel bar, nursing a glass of sothing expensive.
He stood there for a mont, watching, as if hesitating to interrupt sothing sacred. Then, slowly, he sat beside .
He didn't speak right away. Just observed.
Finally, he said, "You're... different."
I tilted my head slightly. "How so?"
"You're at peace." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The others—they worry, they panic, they second-guess themselves. But you..." He exhaled. "You just move forward."
I took a sip of my drink. "Would stopping change anything?"
Elliot shook his head. "No."
"Then why hesitate?"
He was silent for a mont. Then, with sothing like awe, he murmured, "I don't know how you do it."
I turned to him, eting his gaze. "Because I have already accepted the cost."
He swallowed. "The cost?"
"Fear is a price," I said. "Regret is a price. Doubt is a price. And I do not waste my energy paying for things that do not serve ."
Elliot absorbed my words like scripture.
Finally, he whispered, "You really believe that?"
I looked at him. At the way he leaned in, as if seeking sothing—an answer, a confirmation, maybe even permission to think the sa way.
I set my drink down.
"It is not belief, Elliot." I held his gaze. "It is truth."
For a long mont, he just sat there. Then, slowly, he exhaled and nodded.
And in that mont, I saw it—
Not just understanding.
Devotion.
Week Six: The Pressure Rises
As the days blurred into weeks, the reality of the mission started settling in.
People whispered when I passed.
So looked at with awe. Others with concern.
Mark remained a steady presence, watching, evaluating. He never interfered, never questioned my dedication, but I could tell he was waiting for sothing.
For doubt.
For hesitation.
Neither ca.
Instead, I refined every skill I could.
Zero-gravity maneuvers beca second nature. I morized the schematics of the spacecraft until I could have rebuilt it blindfolded. I pushed my body past exhaustion, past limits, until every muscle burned but still obeyed.
I wasn't just preparing for a mission.
I was ensuring my survival.
Sienna and Camille checked in often. They didn't press, didn't try to dissuade . But I could see the worry in their eyes.
"You're insane," Camille muttered one night over video call, watching as I stretched out my sore muscles.
I smirked. "You knew that already."
She rolled her eyes. "Just don't make say I told you so."
Sienna, quieter, only said, "Co back."
I t her gaze through the screen.
"I will," I promised.
Week Seven: The Question
A week before launch, I was summoned to Mark's office.
The ssage was simple. A request. Not a demand.
I arrived exactly on ti.
Mark sat behind his desk, fingers interlaced, his expression unreadable.
"Mr. Angel," he greeted.
"Mark," I returned evenly.
He gestured for to sit. I did.
For a mont, he just studied .
Then, finally, he asked—
"What do you know about Mr. Fox and Mr. Dust?"
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