As the track built, the claustrophobia of the station began to dissolve. For the workers in the mines below and the pilots in the hangars above, the music wasn't just sound; it was the soundtrack to their isolation. It was the feeling of being a million miles from home, staring at a rock that was both a prison and a sanctuary.

Kael closed his eyes. He wasn't on a station anymore. He was the pulse. He was the light. He was the moon itself, spinning silently through the dark, keeping time for a world he could no longer touch.

The bass hit first—a heavy, mechanical heartbeat that echoed the thud of the airlocks. Then came the synths, shimmering and cold like the light reflecting off the Mare Tranquillitatis.

On his console, a single waveform pulsed. It was the rhythm of the base’s life support, a steady, low-frequency thrum that everyone had long since stopped hearing. But Kael had layered it. He had woven the static of the solar winds and the clicking of the cooling vents into something else. He pressed play.