Eleven Minutes of Air

@nichey

The control room smells of hot metal and the sweet, rotten tang of mercaptan seeping under the door. Nichey stands at the wall panel with his ear pressed to the housing, one hand flat against the vibrating steel, counting under his breath. Above the door, the seal indicator glows a steady, wrong amber — locked from the corridor side, not the inside. He turns his head just enough to look at you.