The hiss of the steam was constant, a low, steady exhalation that seemed to come from the walls themselves. It filled the narrow chamber with a soft, shifting fog, wrapping around him until even the shape of his own hands blurred. Droplets gathered on the ceiling and fell at intervals, each tiny patter punctuating the background hum.

Harel sat on the middle bench, the cedar slats warm against his back and shoulders. One arm rested along the top rail, the other draped loosely over his knee, palm open to the air. His skin was slick with condensation, heat sinking deep into the muscles he’d worked hard an hour ago—controlled repetitions, free weights, resistance bands. Nothing to impress anyone but enough to remind himself that his strength was his to maintain, not take for granted.

He drew in a slow breath, the air thick with the mingled scent of wood and clean humidity, and let it out just as slowly. His pulse matched the rhythm.

The steam room was one of the few spaces aboard where the usual geometry of the ship didn’t seem to matter. The straight lines, the clean edges—all were softened here. Faces, if there were any, dissolved into silhouettes in the mist. Even voices became muted, caught and reshaped by the dense air. You could be here with someone else and remain entirely in your own world.

Harel’s eyes closed, but not in search of sleep. He simply let the warmth press against him, a weight that was neither oppressive nor unwelcome. He didn’t clear his mind—he never had much use for the idea—but instead let thoughts drift at their own pace, like shuttles coasting without thrusters passing through familiar territory.

The rest was muscle memory: breathing deep, holding for the count, releasing until his lungs felt empty. The heat worked at his shoulders, at the stiff line of his spine, unwinding tension that had settled there long before today’s duty shift.

For now, there was only this—warmth, breath, and the faint, persistent sound of water finding its way down the walls. It wasn’t escape. It wasn’t distraction. It was simply space.

And that was enough.

Lt. Commander Harel ○●●
Chief of Operations
U.S.S. Saracen