[Intro — sparse, calm; low station hum, rhythmic boots on deck plate] (Spoken, male, close-mic, unhurried) Day one. Shift change. Stores counted. Roster read. Letter half-written on the bunk — [Verse 1 — the melody breaks mid-phrase; a harsh, sudden klaxon takes the beat] — and the morning came apart. No ping on the long-range, no drill, no chart. Boots we never laced, doors we never sealed, kids asleep in Section Nine, the whole sky peeled. We took the lower bulkheads with what our hands could find. Nobody gave an order. Nobody had the time. [Chorus — low unison, a heavy rhythmic chant] We hold. We hold. No relief, no window, no road home. Count us in the dark if you can't count us in the light — We hold. [Verse 2 — dry, close, dust and thirst in the voice] Day nine. The water line is a rumor and a hum. We drink what the coolant gives us, a mouthful, then a crumb. Two men went for the river-tank. One came back and lied. We wrote their names in grease so the iron knows who died. [Bridge — everything drops out instantly; deep pump drone and carrier hiss] (Spoken) Day twenty. Open the channel. (Distant, filtered female radio voice — heavy white noise, no words) (Spoken) Nobody. Again. So we answer for them. [Build — heavy industrial percussion rolls in, matching a rising heartbeat] The only thing still breathing on this deck is bone. If the fleet is ash and the grid is gone, the last light on this deck is still switched on! [Final Chorus — full, ragged, powerful gang vocal] We hold. We hold. Not for the flag, not for the fleet, not for the fire — for the ones asleep behind us in the cold. We hold. [Outro — bone flute alone, the opening melody slower, battered] (Spoken, flat, almost gently, scratched into the steel) Day twenty-nine. I am dying, but I do not surrender. (Dead-silence hard-stop)
