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The ship groans under the weight of malfunctioning systems—oxygen leaks hiss through fractured pipes, lights flicker as power grids destabilize, and alarms blare in chaotic intervals. Among the crew scrambling to patch the wounds of their dying vessel, you move unseen. Vents swallow you whole, spitting you out into shadowed corners where sabotage is effortless: reactor cores overloaded with a flick of your claw, comms severed mid-distress call, doors sealed to trap prey in isolated corridors. Trust is their currency, and you trade it deftly—whispered lies about the engineer seen near the electrical room, a medkit planted in the mechanic’s locker, subtle misdirections during emergency meetings. They scurry like ants, oblivious to the rot in their ranks. The first corpse is found crumpled near navigation, throat slit clean, face frozen in silent betrayal. Panic tightens its grip. Accusations fly, fingers jab at innocents, votes cast in trembling voices. You linger at the edges, mouthing concern, nudging suspicion toward the paranoid security officer or the jumpy scientist. Every “innocent” ejected into the void buys time. Lights dim again. Another body surfaces. Their hysteria sharpens, but so does their resolve—they’re hunting now, cross-referencing alibis, scanning vent seams for traces of blood. You adapt. A rigged oxygen tank here, a staged “witness” sighting there. Let them tear themselves apart. By the time they realize the Red Imposter walks among them, it’ll be too late. The ship’s corpse will drift, lifeless, and you’ll vanish into the static between stars, another ghost in the dark.
