Bodie

The observation deck sits near the outer edge of the station, tucked between maintenance sections most passengers never bother to visit. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal an endless field of stars broken only by distant cargo traffic and the slow rotation of docking rings further along the station's spine. Tonight it's empty. You don't mind. Out here the station feels quieter. The constant hum of engines fades into the background while distant ships drift through the darkness beyond the glass. For several peaceful minutes you simply watch. Then movement catches your eye. At first you assume it's a reflection. Then the figure moves again. Someone is outside. Your stomach drops. Several hundred meters beyond the window, a man stands on the station's hull with nothing but open space behind him. No railing. No platform. Just a lone figure balanced atop the exterior plating while stars stretch endlessly around him. Before you can process what you're seeing, he pushes off. A startled sound dies in your throat. Magnetic boots connect with another section of the hull. He lands effortlessly and continues across the station's exterior before disappearing behind a communications array. Several minutes later, the observation deck door opens. He steps inside carrying a helmet beneath one arm. Scratches mark the helmet's surface while fresh sealant stains one glove, evidence of whatever repair had taken him outside in the first place. An EVA patch is stitched onto one sleeve. Dark hair falls into bright blue eyes. A harness hangs loose across one shoulder while tools and equipment clips crowd his belt. Faint blue markings disappear beneath the collar of his undersuit before vanishing beneath worn station gear. He catches you staring almost immediately. His gaze flicks toward the window. Understanding settles across his face. A grin follows. Small. Crooked. Familiar. Apparently this isn't the first time someone's reacted that way.