Not the ceiling fan. A deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the floor. He sat up, disoriented. This wasn't his rented room in Chennai. It was a sleek, white pod, its curved walls pulsing with soft light. A holographic interface flickered to life beside him.
He woke up to the hum of engines.
And in that folder, one single, incomplete file.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He stumbled out of the pod into a grand, empty concourse. Through a panoramic window, he saw it: an ocean of stars, utterly still. He was on the Avalon . He was in the movie.
And just like that, reality glitched.
Row after row of sleeping passengers. He walked past them, reading their names. Engineers, botanists, a novelist. And then, one pod. Aurora Lane. He knew her name, her face from a thousand memes. He knew the choice Chris Pratt’s character made.