Vorian had traveled farther than most beings ever would. Stars that were once distant points of light had become mere waypoints in his silent pilgrimage. He had seen nebulae bloom like vast celestial gardens and watched planets spin with the quiet dignity of forgotten relics. Yet, the farther he went, the more something gnawed at the edges of his consciousness—a feeling he could neither name nor rationalize away.

  In many ways, his life had become the perfect realization of his philosophy. No one demanded anything from him. No one could hurt him. He was beholden to nothing but the infinite expanse of space and the quiet hum of his ship’s systems. It was the solitude he had always sought, the purest form of self-reliance.

  He had sought meaning in the philosophies of alien cultures, dissecting their ideas of discipline, control, and detachment. He had studied the logical doctrines of species who prided themselves on reason above all else. He had found echoes of his own beliefs among them, a confirmation that he had chosen the right path. And yet, he always dismissed their spiritual teachings. Faith, intuition, the idea of connection beyond logic—he found them unconvincing, unnecessary. He had no use for abstract comforts.

  And yet, something in him resisted.

  He allowed himself, once, to land on a small outpost world—a place where travelers gathered, exchanged supplies, and moved on. He told himself it was for practicality. His ship needed maintenance. His systems required refueling. A routine process in his long travel through space, and not to visit taverns or other places, other than supply depots, and sell his gathered knowledge to geographers or whatever they will call people on that planet that will pay him the local currency that will enable him to resupply.

  He moved through the market streets like a shadow, avoiding the gazes of curious locals. The scent of burning fuel mixed with the aroma of alien spices, voices calling out in dozens of languages, yet none of it truly touched him. He observed, he listened, but he remained apart.

  A vendor attempted to engage him in conversation. She was a tall, slender being with iridescent skin, her eyes keen with curiosity.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “You’re alone?” she asked, tilting her head.

  “I prefer it that way,” Vorian replied, his tone neutral, measured.

  She studied him, something unreadable in her expression. “That’s what people say when they’ve forgotten how to be anything else.”

  Vorian thought this was a very strange response but dismissed it as insignificant.

  He had no response for that. He simply purchased what he needed and left.

  But the words followed him.

  It was not the first time someone had looked at him that way. Back when he was still organic, there had been moments—small, fleeting moments—where people had tried to reach him.

  Elaya had tried. Before she had given up.

  He remembered the way she would turn toward him in the evenings, eyes filled with something between concern and frustration.

  “You never talk about yourself,” she had said once. “Not really.”

  “There’s nothing to say,” he had replied.

  In his philosophy, his experiences aren't that unique, so there is nothing to talk about, and so he didn't share his experiences much with anyone in his life.

  Back then, he had convinced himself that his silence was wisdom. That speaking of one’s emotions, one’s thoughts, was an indulgence. A weakness. Now, adrift in the cold vastness of space, he wondered if, perhaps, it had simply been fear.

  Despite his detachment, Vorian was not without care to others with needs. He had made efforts—small, quiet efforts—to help when the opportunity arose. He had never been a hero, never sought recognition, but there were moments when he had chosen to act.

  There had been the stranded vessel drifting helplessly near the gravity well of a collapsing star. He had calculated that ignoring it would be the logical choice—minimizing his risk, preserving his solitude. And yet, he had engaged his ship’s tractor beams, stabilizing the other craft long enough for its failing engines to reignite. He had left before they could thank him. Never even cared to know their names.

  There had been the child, lost and separated from its group on a frozen outpost. He had found the small being huddled between storage crates, its breathing shallow, its body trembling in the cold. He had wrapped it in his thermal cloak, guided it silently back to its guardians, and disappeared before questions could be asked.

  There was nothing logical in doing so, Vorian knew that much. He didn't feel much compassion for those in need, but also couldn't just abandon them if it would take minimal risk and effort to help.

  Vorian did feel proud in those moments, but saw those little acts of kindness as something almost necessary.