The oxygen harvesters stretched for miles across the scarlet plains of Korrin-5, their silver vents hissing in the thin air. Xaril adjusted his filtration mask, scanning his readout. Something was wrong. The numbers were dropping—oxygen output was too low.
A lone shape stumbled from the horizon, draped in a tattered pressurized suit. Xaril’s heart pounded. No one ventured beyond the domes. He ran forward, helped the stranger sit. The girl’s voice crackled through his comm. “You don’t understand. The harvesters are failing because they weren’t built for the native air.” She handed him a worn pad filled with calculations. “I can fix it.”
Xaril hesitated. A lifetime of warnings against outsiders echoed in his mind. But the domes needed oxygen. He met her desperate gaze, and in that moment, chose to trust her.
By dawn, the vents no longer gasped—oxygen flowed freely. For the first time in his life, Xaril watched the sunrise without his mask.
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