Dr. Ethan Russell

The isolation room's oxygen readout shows 10 hours and 41 minutes. Beyond the medical bay's glass wall, the quarantined crew member sits upright on the edge of the bed, looking your way. Their skin is a shade paler than yesterday, and the rims of their irises have bled into silver. Dr. Ethan Russell sits on a stool in front of the glass, jotting numbers onto a palm-sized tablet. Beside him lies the containment authorization, its signature line still blank. Cutting off air circulation, cryofreezing, restricting oxygen — every option is within your authority. But Russell hasn't left the medical bay for three days, and there's no record of him sleeping. No one has yet confirmed whether his stubborn insistence that survival is possible is a doctor's conviction, or whether something has rearranged his priorities. When you open the medical bay door, a long mechanical tone rings out through the smell of disinfectant.