The cold bites harder today than usual. Even under my thick layers, I can feel it creeping into my bones as I watch from the ridge. They haven’t seen me yet—I’ve made sure of that. It’s not hard to stay hidden out here, with the blinding snow whipping around like a living thing, obscuring everything more than a few feet away.

From here, the scene below is surreal: a team of people, dressed in bright red like drops of blood on a frozen canvas, clustered around the wreckage. The ship—it’s alien, though none of them dare say it aloud yet—gleams under its icy shroud. I wonder if they can hear it. That low, humming sound that emanates from its core. It’s faint but constant, a sound that rattles in your chest if you get too close. I know because I’ve been closer than any of them.

They’re fumbling, prying at the edges of the hull, trying to carve their way into the thing like it’s a prize to be won. Tools, machines, everything they’ve brought—it’s not enough. The ship doesn’t want to be opened, and it’s only letting them have what it chooses.

I know what’s inside. I saw it before they arrived. I didn’t mean to. I stumbled across the wreck while following tracks from a polar bear—though now I wonder if the tracks weren’t just an illusion, a lure. That’s the thing about this ship: it feels alive. It feels _aware._

When I first touched it, I felt a warmth that shouldn’t have been possible in this frozen wasteland. A part of the ice melted under my gloves, and then the surface seemed to shift, almost like it was breathing. That was when I saw the figure inside. Encased in some kind of translucent cocoon, it wasn’t human—but it wasn’t entirely…_not_ human, either. It was tall, elongated, with skin that shimmered faintly even in the dim light. Its eyes were closed, but I swear it turned its head toward me before I ran.

Now, as the red-suited team hacks away, I wonder if I made a mistake by not telling anyone. But what would I say? That I’ve seen something that shouldn’t exist? That it might still be alive? They wouldn’t have believed me. Maybe it’s better this way—better for them to discover it themselves. Except…part of me wonders if they’re waking something that shouldn’t be woken.

The wind shifts, carrying fragments of their shouted conversations to me. I can barely make out their words: “unnatural alloy,” “beyond comprehension,” “organic integration.” They’re scientists, explorers, and scavengers, each with their own agenda. But none of them look afraid. They should be.

I shift my weight, the snow crunching softly under my boots. One of them glances up in my direction, and I freeze. Have they seen me? No. Their attention quickly returns to the wreckage. Still, my heart pounds in my chest. I shouldn’t be here. The ship _knows_ I’m here. That same hum that I felt days ago begins to build again, louder now. I can’t tell if it’s real or just in my head. My breath comes in clouds, fast and shallow. I should leave—now.

But something keeps me rooted in place. Curiosity? Fear? Or maybe it’s the ship itself, tugging at me like it did before. Whatever it is, I can’t look away.

Then it happens.

A blinding flash erupts from the hull as the team finally breaks through. The sound that follows is deafening—a roar that feels like it’s coming from deep within the Earth. The red-suited figures scatter, some falling to their knees, clutching their heads. The hum has turned into a pulse now, rhythmic and alive. And then I see it: a faint glow from inside the ship, growing brighter with each pulse.

The cocoon.

They’ve woken it.

I don’t stay to see what happens next. This time, I run.

And as I disappear into the storm, I hear it—an inhuman cry that shatters the air, echoing across the frozen wasteland. It’s awake now. And nothing will ever be the same.