"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."

  Vorian’s travels led him to many worlds, but he never lingered long. He sought knowledge, yet his pursuit was not aimless—at least, that was what he told himself. His vessel touched down on the barren trading outpost of Zepharion-9, a station orbiting a gas giant with a sky stained in deep hues of violet and amber. It was a place of commerce, of passage, but never of permanence. And that suited him just fine.

  His purpose there was trivial—a parts exchange, a data retrieval—just another errand in an existence structured by necessity, not desire. But as he waited for his transaction to be processed, something caught his eye. A being, humanoid in form but covered in a rough, chitinous exoskeleton, stood at the threshold of a small service stall.

  Vorian noted the way the being moved with deliberate repetition—adjusting the worn-out panels of the stall, recalibrating its ancient register, sweeping the metallic floor with the same practiced strokes. Every motion, every step seemed ingrained, as though the being had performed them a thousand times before and would a thousand times more. The station bustled around it, but the creature moved alone, untouched by the chaos, unaware or unbothered by the shifting tides of life around it.

  Something about the sight unsettled Vorian.

  He returned the next day, and the scene repeated itself. And the next.

  Each time, the being performed its duties with the same mechanical precision, as if caught in an endless cycle. The way it moved, the way it existed—it gnawed at something buried deep in Vorian’s mind, something he had long ignored.

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  He had once been like this. He had walked the same paths day after day, speaking the same words, exchanging meaningless gestures, locked in a life that seemed to unfold without deviation. He remembered the days spent in his old existence, in his old body, before he had chosen to become something more—something removed, something beyond.

  Back then, he had rationalized everything. Why work hard for things that only led to more toil? Why push forward when the reward was just another step in an endless cycle? He had convinced himself that stagnation was not failure, but a form of peace.

  But he had been wrong.

  The realization struck him with the weight of an old wound reopened.

  He wasn’t as detached as he had thought—because if he were, this sight would not bother him. But it did. And that meant something.

  Vorian hesitated, then took a step forward. He approached the stall, the low hum of station chatter fading as he closed the distance. The being paused in its movements, looking up at him with dark, unblinking eyes.

  “You do the same work every day,” Vorian stated.

  The being tilted its head. “It is my duty.”

  “And you are content with that?”

  A slow, deliberate blink. “Contentment is not a consideration. It is what I do.”

  Vorian studied the creature. There was no resentment in its voice, no sign of dissatisfaction—only acceptance. It had found a purpose within its cycle, whether Vorian understood it or not.

  He thought about his own life. The places he visited. The things he learned. He had convinced himself he was moving forward, that his existence was different from what it had been before. But was it? Was he truly any different from this being, performing a routine of his own making?

  No answer came to him. Only silence.

  He left the outpost the next day, but the image of the being lingered in his mind long after Zepharion-9 had faded into the stars. For the first time in a long while, Vorian found himself questioning the path he had chosen—not just where it led, but whether it was truly his at all.