I had always been a man who moved forward.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
So, after that morning in the hotel café—after shaking Mark's hand and sealing my fate—I did exactly that.
Week One: The First Steps
Preparation came in waves, each more demanding than the last. My schedule was relentless—physical conditioning, survival training, mission briefings, and technical simulations designed to break lesser men.
By the end of the first week, I had already surpassed most of the official astronaut candidates in the physical assessments. The weightlifting drills were laughable. The endurance tests, even in simulated low-oxygen environments, felt familiar. My time as a firefighter had forged a body that could endure stress beyond most people's limits.
The instructors took notice.
And Elliot—Elliot followed.
He wasn't required to be in half the training sessions I attended. But he showed up anyway.
On the third day, after a particularly brutal zero-gravity maneuvering exercise, he landed clumsily beside me, panting hard, his face red from exertion.
"You—" He sucked in a breath. "You—don't—stop."
I steadied myself against the handrails, unbothered by the dizziness that came from spinning mid-air. "And?"
He wiped sweat from his forehead, eyes flicking to me like he was seeing something unreal. "How do you just keep going?"
I studied him for a moment. Then, calmly, I said, "Because forward is the only direction."
Elliot let out a short, breathless laugh. "That's—" He stopped himself. Shook his head. His expression shifted from disbelief to something heavier. "No... that's right, isn't it?"
"You're not afraid of breaking?" His voice was quieter now, almost uncertain.
I reached out, gripping the handrail beside him. The weightlessness made my movements smooth, deliberate. "You fear breaking because you still see yourself as something fragile."
He stared at me, wide-eyed.
"You want to be strong, Elliot?" I asked.
"Then stop hesitating."
"Every second you question yourself is a second wasted," I continued. "There is no use in looking back. No use in second-guessing. What is ahead of you?"
His fingers curled against the fabric of his suit. "The mission."
"And what comes after?"
His voice was quieter now. "The future."
I inclined my head. "And what is behind you?"
Then, finally, he said, "Nothing."
I nodded once. "Then walk forward."
Elliot exhaled, something in his posture shifting—his shoulders squaring, his gaze sharpening.
And in that moment, I knew—
Week Three: Owning the Moment
One evening, Elliot found me at the hotel bar, nursing a glass of something expensive.
He stood there for a moment, watching, as if hesitating to interrupt something sacred. Then, slowly, he sat beside me.
He didn't speak right away. Just observed.
Finally, he said, "You're... different."
I tilted my head slightly. "How so?"
"You're at peace." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The others—they worry, they panic, they second-guess themselves. But you..." He exhaled. "You just move forward."
I took a sip of my drink. "Would stopping change anything?"
Elliot shook his head. "No."
He was silent for a moment. Then, with something like awe, he murmured, "I don't know how you do it."
I turned to him, meeting his gaze. "Because I have already accepted the cost."
He swallowed. "The cost?"
"Fear is a price," I said. "Regret is a price. Doubt is a price. And I do not waste my energy paying for things that do not serve me."
Elliot absorbed my words like scripture.
Finally, he whispered, "You really believe that?"
I looked at him. At the way he leaned in, as if seeking something—an answer, a confirmation, maybe even permission to think the same way.
"It is not belief, Elliot." I held his gaze. "It is truth."
For a long moment, he just sat there. Then, slowly, he exhaled and nodded.
And in that moment, I saw it—
Not just understanding.
Week Six: The Pressure Rises
As the days blurred into weeks, the reality of the mission started settling in.
People whispered when I passed.
Some looked at me with awe. Others with concern.
Mark remained a steady presence, watching, evaluating. He never interfered, never questioned my dedication, but I could tell he was waiting for something.
Instead, I refined every skill I could.
Zero-gravity maneuvers became second nature. I memorized the schematics of the spacecraft until I could have rebuilt it blindfolded. I pushed my body past exhaustion, past limits, until every muscle burned but still obeyed.
I wasn't just preparing for a mission.
I was ensuring my survival.
Sienna and Camille checked in often. They didn't press, didn't try to dissuade me. But I could see the worry in their eyes.
"You're insane," Camille muttered one night over video call, watching as I stretched out my sore muscles.
I smirked. "You knew that already."
She rolled her eyes. "Just don't make me say I told you so."
Sienna, quieter, only said, "Come back."
I met her gaze through the screen.
"I will," I promised.
Week Seven: The Question
A week before launch, I was summoned to Mark's office.
The message was simple. A request. Not a demand.
I arrived exactly on time.
Mark sat behind his desk, fingers interlaced, his expression unreadable.
"Mr. Angel," he greeted.
"Mark," I returned evenly.
He gestured for me to sit. I did.
For a moment, he just studied me.
Then, finally, he asked—
"What do you know about Mr. Fox and Mr. Dust?"