Captain Ames moves with the calm of practiced authority, but his fingers betray him on the console. “How long?”

Captain Ames stares at the map. Ephrion Prime represents more than mission success: supplies, lives depending on a route across unclaimed space. The ship drifts at a fraction of a parsec, a trapped mote in an indifferent universe. The crew weighs options like contraband: wait and die slowly; attempt a risky physical bypass; or find the ancient authority that the lock still honors.

They do not celebrate with fanfare; the moment is quieter, like the soft closing of a wound. Captain Ames stands and lets the ship take them home. Outside, the nebula continues its slow, patient shifting — indifferent, but no longer imprisoning.

They trained for anomalies, for dust storms and engine hiccups, but never for code that sounds like a verdict. The navigation array hums, loyal lights blinking in measured patterns. Outside, the stars keep their indifferent vigil. Inside, five souls hold their breath.

The stars keep watching. The ship keeps moving. Somewhere between parsecs and promises, the crew learns the small, stubborn art of asking to be let through.