The Ghost of Kepler-186f

The cold seeped through Bodyguard's worn flight suit, a familiar ache that had nothing to do with the ship's failing climate control. He stared at the holographic display, the shimmering image of Kepler-186f a distant, verdant promise. But it wasn't the planet that held his attention; it was the tiny, insignificant speck of light orbiting it – Station Nightingale. Another ghost in the void, another whisper of the darkness he chased.

“Nightingale,” he muttered, the name tasting like ash. Thorne had been precise, as always. A research station, dedicated to xenobotanical studies. Isolated. Vulnerable. The perfect hunting ground for a predator that thrived on silence and screams. He ran a calloused thumb over the chipped edge of his datapad, the faint warmth of the device a poor substitute for any genuine comfort. The last report from Nightingale had been a frantic, garbled burst, cut short like a scream choked in the throat. Then nothing.

Bodyguard nudged the throttle, the *Stardust Drifter* groaning in protest as it eased into a slow, deliberate approach. The station, when it finally resolved from a pinprick to a discernible structure, was a morbid beauty. A lattice of gleaming metal and darkened observation domes, it hung suspended against the swirling nebula like a forgotten jewel. But there was no gleam of life, no welcoming beacon. It was a tomb.