Ten789

Leo looked down and saw not his reflection, but a younger version of himself—age ten, the year the选拔 trials had taken his brother. The boy stared up with hollow eyes and whispered, "You left him."

Leo didn't grab the crystal. He opened his suit's sample pouch and let it float inside on its own. Then he fired his ascent thrusters and rose, not looking down, not listening to the boy in the mirror.

He stood on the launch platform, his pressure suit humming with recycled air. Above him, the sky of Kepler-186f was a bruised purple. Below him, seven kilometers of vertical shaft plunged into the planet’s crust—a natural fissure lined with ancient, crystalline growths that the science team called "singing glass."

Above, the purple sky waited. The comms crackled: "Leo? You're ascending early. Report." ten789

But for now, he had the crystal. And the singing had finally stopped.

The chamber was called the Descension, and for ten years, Leo had trained for it.

The bottom was not a floor. It was a mirror. Leo looked down and saw not his reflection,

The moment his gloved fingers touched the crystal, the countdown in his helmet changed.

Ten. Seven. Nine. The numbers had become his mantra, his heartbeat, his religion.

He reached for it.

Six kilometers. His heads-up display flickered. Pressure warnings blinked yellow, then orange. The singing glass here was black as obsidian, and silent. Dead. That was wrong. Every sample from the upper shaft had sung. Why were these dark?

"Descension Control to Leo," crackled the comms. "Final check. Bio-signs?"