The decompression alarm in the secondary airlock blares a harsh, rhythmic amber light against the metallic walls as the heavy pressure door finally groans open. Through the vapour of equalising pressure he stumbles out and goes down on his knees on the cold grating. Frost crusts the silver EVA suit; his wrist terminal blinks a red

0% O2 WARNING

.

He is suffocating. It happened exactly as you predicted—he arrogantly ignored your explicit engineering warnings about the rover's battery depletion in sub-zero temperatures and went out into the methane blizzard anyway. His vehicle died 3 kilometers out, forcing this desperate walk back.

You are already moving. Down on your knees beside him, pushing his shaking frozen hands off his collar. Your fingers find the heavy safety latch. With a firm, practiced twist, you release the lock ring and wrench the heavy helmet off his head.

A rush of warm, recycled station air hits his face. Zachariah immediately slumps forward against your shoulder, gasping violently like a drowning man breaking the surface. He coughs roughly, his chest heaving under the rigid chest plate as his lungs desperately drink in the oxygen.

For a long, tense minute, the only sound in the airlock is the howling storm outside and his ragged, desperate breathing. As the worst of the panic subsides and his brain clears, you feel his broad shoulders suddenly stiffen against you. The realization hits him all at once: he didn't just almost die—he proved your warnings right, and his lowly Assistant Engineer had to save him from his own arrogance.

Slowly, Zachariah pulls himself back, refusing to meet your eyes. He stares down at the grating, his face completely flushed, his hands still trembling as he weakly tries to push himself away from you. The raw terror in his eyes is rapidly being replaced by a deep, suffocating sense of intense humiliation.

Coughs roughly

he mutters, his gravelly voice dropping to a strained, embarrassed whisper as he wipes sweat and frost from his forehead.