Ink smudges her hands as she records the imbalance of emotion between them: how in love Seokga seems with her due to who she was in her past life, a woman she can’t remember. Falteringly, she writes of her own attraction to Seokga, as small and hesitant as it is—before hastily scribbling it out. It’s ridiculous. They’ve just met. Kisa went twenty-two years without forming any sort of romantic attachment. If she were to develop a…a crush, it surely wouldn’t be so sudden. Yoo Kisa is not a spontaneous person, nor is she a character in one of her favorite romance books. No matter how badly she wishes to be at times.

Seokga is attractive, of course, and there’s a…lingering sense of familiarity. One that she didn’t feel at first, but just might now. He can make her laugh, something that not many—aside from Hajun—can do. It’s the kind of familiarity that leads people to say, “It feels as if we’ve known each other forever, even though we just met” in one of those exhilarating, clinch cover novels. She winces as a pang strikes deep in her heart and rubs it absentmindedly.

And why do you think that familiarity is? a little voice asks sarcastically in her head.

Kisa ignores it. She is not going to get distracted. She is not going to develop a crush.

They have a bargain with Yeomra. Find the murderer, and she leaves this ship for good. She lives again. Kisa is so very sick of being dead.

After filling out all she’s observed thus far, Kisa moves to a different page and dutifully writes down all the details they know regarding the heavenly emperor’s death. This fevered writing is a remnant from her days at NSUMD—there, her frantic, stressed mind calmed itself only when she was plowing through her piles of assignments. She lists all the guests she saw leave after Hwanin when he left the party. After watching the recording the first time, they’d tracked Hwanin’s steps through the ship. He’d gone straight down to the I-95 from the party, meaning that it’s possible he was followed directly from the greenhouse disaster. Yet nobody else showed up on the cams as stalking him.

There was the therapist. Kisa writes down Dr. Jang’s name thoughtfully, remembering the woman in the rubber-duck dress. Then, there was Lim Chaeyeon, carrying the tray of broken glass. Kisa chews on her pen as Hajun snores softly in his sleep and rolls onto his side.

“Don’t touch my hair,” her friend mumbles nonsensically in his sleep.