I woke up early the next day. I felt refreshed. The anti-grav bed had worked its magic again. No aches. No stiffness. Nothing. I feel... good. Actually good. The thought made me smile.

  Today, I will finish exploring and then, I will make plans for the future. I can’t wait.

  I wanted to get up, but the bed was so comfortable that I lingered there a bit more, savoring the comfort.

  Between this bed and the ProChef, I don’t think I can ever go back to Earth.

  Since this was my first night in an actual bed, I decided everything before this counted as Day 1. Today was Day 2. A fresh start. Clean slate. It was not logical, but it felt right. I laughed. It reminded me of those farming sim games: the ones that announce every new day like it is an adventure.

  I sat up, grinning. “Day Two,” I announced to the empty room. “Nicolas wakes up feeling refreshed. He has twenty-five action points available.”

  It was a stupid joke. But the absurdity of my situation made me laugh harder. Me, a simple IT guy from Earth, narrating my life like a video game character while floating in space.

  If only it actually worked like that. “Use 1 action point: make coffee. Use 1 action point: don't die in space.”

  After a few minutes, I finally calmed down. I got up and went to the bathroom where I stood under the hot water longer than necessary. Then I had a moment of panic.

  Am I wasting water? How does recycling work here?

  I made a mental note to check the environmental systems later. But for now I'm just going to enjoy this.

  Clean and clothed, I made my way to the kitchen. Every meal option was mouth-watering, but I wanted something simple to wake up.

  Coffee and croissants. Perfect way to start Day Two.

  I scrolled through the ChefPro's breakfast menu. Caffeinated Hot Beverage - Benson Prime?.

  Worth a try. I then spotted the MoonCrust Pastries. Those have to be croissants, right? Same crescent shape in the preview image.

  Choice made, I stood next to the ChefPro while it worked, watching the progress bars intently.

  Come on, come on...

  The completion chime made me jump. I yanked the door open. Warm coffee aroma hit me immediately. It was rich, complex, with hints of something I could not quite identify. Oh, that smells good.

  The pastry looked perfect. Golden-brown, flaky, the exact crescent shape I had been hoping for. I put everything on a platter and moved to the dining area.

  The coffee was incredible. I immediately marked it as a favorite in the ChefPro's database.

  The pastry... was not a croissant.

  It looked right with its golden, flaky, and perfect crescent shape. But the first bite was savory, earthy. Mushrooms, maybe? Or some alien equivalent.

  Not bad. Just... unexpected.

  Trying new food, discovering what worked and what didn't—it was actually exciting. Like opening loot boxes, except the rewards were breakfast.

  Great. I've turned eating into a grinding mechanic. What's next, achievement unlocked for trying ten breakfast items?

  I laughed at myself, but... yeah, I would probably do that.

  I stood up, and small cleaning bots emerged from wall panels I hadn't even noticed. They swarmed the table, collecting dishes with mechanical precision and whisking them away while others cleaned the table.

  Okay, that's just unfair. I could get way too used to this.

  The operations center sat directly above the foyer. I could take the elevator, but I opted for the stairs instead.

  Maybe I'll get a good view on the way up.

  I was not disappointed. The stairwell had floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the asteroid belt. Tumbling rocks drifted past in lazy arcs, backlit by the distant stars. I stopped halfway up just to watch.

  Never getting tired of this view.

  The door looked like it belonged on a bunker. It was massive, reinforced. I hesitated, wondering if I would need to input some kind of command, but when I approached, the door slid open automatically.

  The operations center matched my memories, but experiencing it physically was different. The game had conveyed “fortified command center.” Reality conveyed “this room is built to survive literally anything.”

  Low ceiling. Thick walls. Windows that were more like reinforced viewports: narrow, sturdy, with actual transparent material sandwiched between force fields.

  Not just a force field between me and vacuum. Actual armor.

  This was not just a control room. This was a fortress.

  I sat in one of the command chairs. It adjusted automatically to my height and weight, hovering on a gravitic cushion rather than wheels.

  Gaming chair meets sci-fi. I approve.

  I stood and moved to the nearest viewport. From this angle, I could trace the station's layout: the corridors connecting modules, the careful spacing between sections.

  “Let's see.” I pressed my hand against the transparent material. “That’s the geology lab. Medical bay. Damn, that's far from here.” I traced the connecting corridor with my finger. “And that big one…”

  It took me a moment. The hangar. Of course.

  I traced the route in my head. From the operations center to the hangar. Through the foyer, down two levels, across the main corridor.

  That's... that's a long way. If something goes wrong and I need to evacuate…

  I remembered showing this place off in Life Among the Stars. Everyone had been impressed. Mahgret had even copied parts of my design for her own station.

  Yeah, well, Mahgret never had to actually live in it.

  Rule of cool versus practical survival. Gaming logic versus reality. The gaming logic was losing.

  The realization about the hangar dampened my mood. I returned to the command chair, settling in with less enthusiasm than before.

  Okay. Enough sightseeing. Time to actually check the systems.

  I squared my shoulders and pulled up the first console. It responded to my touch immediately. I navigated through the system menus: life support, power generation, structural integrity.

  All green. Everything nominal.

  I checked the recycling: 100% efficiency for air and water recycling. I sighed in relief. Good news. No restriction on shower time. And the station is in perfect condition. That's something, at least.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I pulled up the defense menu and froze.

  Automated defenses: OFFLINEProximity scans: OFFLINEEarly warning system: OFFLINE

  “What?” I stared at the screen. “I've been here for days with no defenses active?”

  My hands moved quickly, activating everything. Turrets came online. Sensor arrays began sweeping. The early warning grid expanded outward.

  Anything comes near this station now, I'll know about it.

  The thought that I had been completely undefended for days made my skin crawl.

  I took a breath and pulled up the main database.

  Okay. Time for answers.

  The menu loaded. I navigated to stellar cartography, already imagining the star charts spreading across the display. I would find out where I was, what systems were nearby, maybe even recognize some names from the game.

  DATABASE EMPTY

  I stared at the message.

  No. That can't be right.

  I backed out, tried a different route. Navigation database. Same result. Historical records. Empty. News archives. Empty. Communications logs. Empty.

  “No.” I stood abruptly. “No, no, no.”

  I moved to the next console, not bothering with the chair, just stabbing at the controls. Main database. Empty. Cultural archive. Empty. Local system data.

  DATABASE EMPTY

  I had every technical manual. Every blueprint. Every maintenance schedule and parts specification.

  But no star charts. No dates. No context. No information.

  I did not know where I was. Or when I was. Or what the galaxy looked like beyond this asteroid belt.

  “Damn it!” I slammed my fist on the console.

  I moved from station to station, pulling up database after database. There has to be something. Somewhere.

  But every query returned the same message: NO DATA

  I leaned against the console, breathing hard.

  Where am I? Where am I? I need to know where I am.

  The thought circled, useless and desperate.

  Anger surged. I have a whole fracking space station and I can't find one simple star chart?

  Then the anger drained away, leaving only defeated.

  I sank into the nearest chair, shoulders slumping, then pulled up the database one more time, as if it might have magically filled itself in the last thirty seconds.

  NO DATA

  I stared at the word until it stopped meaning anything. I forced myself to breathe. Slowly. Deliberately.

  In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.

  Claire had taught me that. Out of all my friends in Life Among the Stars, Claire and Lucas were my closest. He was the brother I never had and she was the wise aunt I never had. She took care of everyone in the guild. Some called her our hen-mother. She was a retired literature teacher of French and Korean heritage, patient as stone, devoted to her tai-chi practice. Once, when I had been particularly stressed about work, she had walked me through breathing techniques.

  “Not just for meditation,” she had said. “For when your brain won't stop running in circles.”

  I had practiced them occasionally since then, mostly out of respect for her. Never thought I would actually need them.

  After a few minutes, the panic receded. My breathing steadied. My thoughts stopped their frantic loop.

  Okay. Okay. I can handle this.

  “Thank you, Claire,” I murmured to the empty room. “Wherever you are. I miss you.”

  The words hung in the silence for a moment. Then I straightened, squared my shoulders, and turned back to the console.

  I pulled up more menus. Searching for something. Anything.

  Inventory: nothing beyond equipment lists and supply counts. I scanned the list. Nothing useful stood out.

  Worth a shot.

  I pulled up communications. The station had powerful broadcast capabilities. I could send a signal across light-years.

  Or I paint a giant target on my back.

  No. Not until I knew what was out there. Who was out there. Whether they would help or just come to loot an undefended station. I closed the comms menu.

  Sensors gave me local data at least.

  Binary star system. One yellow star. One red dwarf. Three planets, all gas giants. The third one sat far out, cold and distant, its orbit at an odd angle and considerably more elliptical than expected.

  Might be worth investigating. Later.

  No valuable resources in the asteroids: mostly ice and common metals. That probably explained why the system was uninhabited.

  I was about to close the sensor menu when something clicked.

  Wait.

  I sat up straighter, mind racing.

  I can map the stars myself. Take measurements of nearby stars from different points in the station's orbit. Get angles, calculate distances, use basic parallax, like eighth grade geometry.

  The sensor equipment was precise enough. The math was simple. And the Mahkkra had FTL capability. If I only aimed for close stars, I could actually reach whatever I mapped.

  A slow grin spread across my face.

  I don't need a database. I can make my own star charts.

  The defeat from minutes ago evaporated. I had a plan. It would take time. Weeks. But it was something. A goal. A direction.

  I can do this.

  I stood up, feeling lighter. The database disappointment still stung, but I had a path forward now.

  And I still have the rest of the station to see.

  The entertainment center was close by. It was just off the main foyer. I practically jogged there.

  The main room matched the hab section's layout: huge two-story space, doors at ground level leading to different rooms, stairs climbing to a mezzanine, transparent ceiling showing the stars beyond.

  Where the hab section was quiet greens and blues, plants and aquariums, this space was vibrant. Black and white geometric carpets, punctuated by massive red sofas that looked impossibly comfortable.

  The entire mezzanine was covered in soft fabric. It was like a massive cushion designed for stargazing.

  Oh, I'm definitely spending time up there.

  The first room was a home theater. I had furnished it with premium seats and a massive holo-projector. I backed out without going in.

  Empty database means empty theater. No point getting disappointed again.

  The gym, though. That one, I was excited about.

  I had spent a fortune on equipment in the game, buying top-of-the-line everything. If even half of it translated to reality, I would have everything needed for the auto-doc's exercise program.

  A few steps down from the entrance led to the main floor. The space opened up into what could only be called a fitness paradise. Treadmills, rowing machines, pull-down stations, ellipticals, and at least a dozen machines I did not recognize at all.

  I moved through the room, running my hands over equipment, testing seats and grips. At one station, I tried to lift what looked like a simple barbell with small weights.

  It did not budge.

  What the heck?

  I spotted a small control panel on the bar. A digital readout showed: 50kg

  Adjustable weights. Of course. I tapped it down to 5kg and tried again. I had to make an effort to lift it. I tapped it down to 1kg. This time it lifted easily.

  This is brilliant.

  The next room was a leisure lounge, designed to look like an old Earth speakeasy. A polished counter, backed by shelves of bottles. High stools. Booth seating in the back, intimate and inviting. The atmosphere was perfect. It was warm, inviting, designed for conversation and laughter. It reminded me of nights out colleagues. Except I was the only one here.

  Beautiful room. Terrible reminder that I'm alone.

  The last room was the recreation room, though I immediately dubbed it the rec room. It was my favorite. I knew I would be spending a lot of time here.

  One wall was lined with arcade cabinets. Vintage-style games that looked like they'd been pulled from 1980s Earth. In Life Among the Stars, they were actually licensed old games. I was very curious to see what game they had become. I checked the first one. Oh wow. It’s actually the same game. I smiled. I had played that very game when I was a teenager.

  But the centerpiece of the room was a massive pool table, with holographic projectors at each corner.

  Holo-pool. Nice. I picked up one of the cues. It felt solid, real. The balls hovering above the table looked real too, until I touched one and my hand passed through.

  Even better: the table could simulate an opponent. I could actually play against an AI instead of just practicing alone. I couldn't resist. I activated the table, selected “Basic Opponent,” and started a game.

  Ten minutes later, I had lost spectacularly. I was terrible at pool. Always had been. But I loved it anyway. I checked my holobracer on a hunch. Sure enough, there was an app already loaded: Pool Training & Technique - Beginner to Advanced

  Okay, I'm definitely practicing this.

  Not everything had to be survival skills. Sometimes you just needed to be able to shoot pool, even if you were the only person in the entire star system.