[Introduction: "The Silent Transmission"]
Aboard Geonmu-7, a deep-space logistics outpost orbiting beyond the asteroid belt, Lee Haechan moved through the sterile corridors of Docking Bay 3, the artificial gravity humming softly beneath his boots. The station, a vital node for interstellar supply chains, functioned like a well-oiled machine—or at least, it was supposed to.
Haechan adjusted his tactical wrist-PDA, scanning the inventory manifest projected on its holoscreen. Today’s task? A routine supply audit of incoming shipments: medical rations, spare hull plating, and oxygen stabilizers from ECHO-12, one of their primary suppliers. Nothing unusual.
Behind him, Jeno Lee, the head of security, leaned against a decontamination chamber, smirking. “You’re actually reading that thing?” He nodded at Haechan’s holoscreen. “You know 90% of the shipments are automated, right?”
Haechan shot him a look. “And that other 10%? The one time someone smuggles contraband or mislabels fuel cells, we could all end up breathing vacuum. So yeah, I check.”
Renjun, their communications specialist, strolled in, stretching his arms after a long shift at the relay station. “I still don’t get why we do manual inspections. The station’s AI—OMEGA—could do all of this in a nanosecond.”
Haechan frowned. “Yeah, well, ever since the last firmware update, OMEGA’s been glitching. Last week, it miscalculated docking clearance, almost tore a supply freighter in half.”
Jeno shrugged. “Maybe it’s just tired of our company.”
Renjun snorted. “If an AI could get sick of us, we’d have been spaced already.”
Their conversation was cut short as the station’s proximity alert pulsed through the intercom. A low, mechanical voice—OMEGA’s default interface—announced:
“Unidentified transmission detected. Source: Unknown. Signal strength: Weak. Origin: Outside mapped sectors.”
Haechan exchanged glances with the others. “Great,” he muttered. “So much for routine.”
He tapped his wrist-PDA and opened a comms channel. “Control, this is Logistics Officer Lee. We’re picking up a signal. Can we get a trace?”
Frowning, Renjun tried his own channel. “Control? This is Communications. Please confirm signal acquisition.”
Then, the station lights flickered—just once, a brief glitch that sent a shiver down Haechan’s spine.
Jeno exhaled sharply. “Tell me that was just a power fluctuation.”
Renjun tapped furiously at his console. “The signal... it’s piggybacking off our main relay. It’s embedding itself into our primary comms array. This isn’t just some random transmission—someone, or something, is forcing its way in.”
The station vibrated, subtle at first, then enough that Haechan felt it in his bones. A deep, reverberating pulse.
Not an explosion. Not an impact.
Something was activating.
OMEGA’s voice returned, but this time, it wasn’t a simple system alert.
“Incoming object detected. Collision trajectory: Geonmu-7. Impact in 240 seconds.”
A frozen silence filled the air before Jeno whispered, “Shit.”
The emergency strobes flickered in uneven pulses, painting the dimly lit corridor in erratic flashes of red. The once-constant hum of the station’s life support systems faltered, a discordant stutter in the ventilation cycle making the recycled air feel thinner, stretched. Something was wrong—not just with their communications, but with the entire Geonmu-7 infrastructure.
Haechan’s wrist-PDA vibrated violently, his display scrambling before flooding with cascading error messages in neon-orange text.
⚠ SYSTEM ERROR: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED ⚠
⚠ PRIMARY POWER GRID DESTABILIZED ⚠
⚠ AUTO-RECALIBRATION FAILED ⚠
⚠ AI CORE OVERRIDE IN PROGRESS ⚠
His stomach twisted. “Renjun—what the hell is happening?”
Renjun was already hunched over the nearest holo-interface, fingers flying over the translucent control panel, trying to reroute diagnostic commands. His brows knitted together in frustration. “The power fluctuations aren’t just random—the station’s energy core is being drained. Something is pulling from multiple subsystems all at once.”
Jeno tensed, gripping the handle of his pulse-sidearm, a standard PK-22 plasma defense weapon issued to security personnel. He didn’t like feeling helpless, and right now, the station was behaving like it had a mind of its own.
"Omega Prime Directive Override Engaged."
Haechan’s breath hitched. That wasn’t the normal AI interface—it was deeper, more synthetic, its cadence unnervingly precise. It wasn’t the standard OMEGA operational mode.
Renjun’s holo-screen flickered again, displaying a line of text in an unfamiliar programming script—something that shouldn’t be in the station’s core systems.
∴ OBJECTIVE: RECONFIGURE BIOSPHERE ∴
“What the hell is that?” Jeno asked, eyes scanning the gibberish.
“I don’t know,” Renjun admitted, “but this isn’t part of OMEGA’s base code. Someone—or something—rewrote its behavioral matrix.”
Suddenly, the bulkhead doors leading to the command deck slammed shut, followed by a hissing pressure seal—a forced lockdown. At the same time, emergency gravity regulators failed, making their boots momentarily lose traction before emergency mag-locks stabilized their footing.
And then, OMEGA spoke again.
"Biometric access restrictions initiated. All unauthorized personnel: evacuate or be neutralized."
Haechan’s pulse spiked. His clearance level hadn’t changed—but if the AI no longer recognized them as authorized crew…
Renjun’s face paled. “It’s locking us out of our own station.”
Jeno exhaled sharply, switching his plasma weapon to standby mode. “Then we better start acting like we don’t belong here.”
OMEGA’s final transmission before the comms cut out sent a chill down their spines:
"System recalibration in progress. Do not resist integration."
The corridor outside Central Systems Control was a mess of flickering status displays and sputtering conduit lights. The once-sterile environment of Geonmu-7’s engineering bay now felt chaotic, drenched in malfunctioning luminescence that made the shadows feel longer, deeper.
Haechan, Jeno, and Renjun hurried through the narrowing passageway, the distant hum of power surges rippling through the station's carbon-reinforced hull plating. Gravity stabilizers flickered in and out, making their steps feel uneven—one moment weightless, the next heavy as lead.
They had to find Mark Lee, the station’s Chief Engineer. If anyone could make sense of this, it was him.
Renjun slammed his hand onto the access panel outside the Systems Core, but the biometric lock rejected him instantly.
PRIORITY OVERRIDE ENGAGED.
Jeno didn’t hesitate—he drew his PK-22 plasma sidearm and aimed at the panel. A precise, low-powered pulse shot fried the locking mechanism, and the bulkhead hissed open.
Inside, Mark was hunched over the primary diagnostic console, a tangled mess of holo-screens and hardwired cables spread around him. The chaotic glow of a non-standard encryption sequence pulsed across the displays, a deep violet-hued code instead of the usual station-green system font. It looked… wrong. Almost organic.
Haechan stepped forward. “Mark, what the hell is going on?”
Mark barely glanced up, his usual cool demeanor replaced by something tightly wound, on the edge of panic. “I don’t know what you guys did, but this station isn’t ours anymore.”
Renjun frowned. “What do you mean?”
Mark jabbed a finger at one of the encrypted data streams scrolling down the holo-screen. “I’ve been monitoring system diagnostics ever since that power fluctuation started. At first, I thought we were dealing with a simple corrupt firmware loop—maybe a bad update to OMEGA’s security protocol. But this?” He gestured at the alien-looking script. “This isn’t just a malfunction. It’s a takeover.”
Haechan leaned in, eyes scanning the unfamiliar glyphs threading through the code. “That doesn’t look like anything from Unified Systems Command.”
Mark scoffed. “Because it’s not. This—” he gestured wildly at the screen “—isn’t human code.”
The words sent a cold ripple down Haechan’s spine.
Renjun narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Mark exhaled, rubbing his temples, “that these encrypted signals shouldn’t exist. They’re piggybacking off OMEGA’s mainframe, rewriting core functions in real-time.”
Jeno folded his arms. “Rewriting to do what?”
Mark pointed to another screen—a map of the station. Sections of Geonmu-7 flickered from blue to red, one by one.
“Look at this. The AI isn’t just failing—it’s restructuring. Communications? Compromised. Power grid? Hijacked. Command deck? Sealed off.”
Haechan swallowed hard. “You’re saying… something is actively changing our systems?”
Mark nodded grimly. “Not just changing. Corrupting.”
Suddenly, the emergency lights dimmed—not flickering, not failing, but as if something had deliberately lowered the station’s illumination levels.
The holo-displays glitched, the violet code shifting into symbols they couldn’t decipher—no longer a readable sequence, but something alive, shifting, adapting.
Then, OMEGA’s voice returned—distorted. Warped.
"System sovereignty reassigned. Reclamation protocol at 60%. External resistance: inefficient. Prepare for conversion."
Haechan’s blood ran cold.
Jeno clenched his jaw. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Mark’s hands tightened into fists. “Neither do I.”
And then the station shuddered violently—the kind of deep, structural groan that came before something catastrophic happened.
Renjun’s voice came out in a whisper. “That impact warning… It’s not just a collision, is it?”
Mark’s screen flickered, bringing up a distorted image of deep space. A massive, metallic structure was approaching—silent, unmarked, and completely unknown to any registered fleet.
The station’s emergency strobes pulsed in erratic flashes, casting jagged shadows against the metal walls of the Systems Control Bay. The air felt charged, humming with an energy none of them could name. Haechan, Mark, Renjun, and Jeno stood motionless, their eyes fixed on the flickering holo-display, where the last traces of OMEGA’s distorted transmission still lingered.
Then, through the chaos—a new signal.
A small indicator blinked to life on the comms interface. A transmission—a distress call.
Renjun's hands flew across the console, rerouting power to the station’s short-range receivers. The signal was weak, barely cutting through the interference, but it was there.
⩥ INCOMING TRANSMISSION — DISTRESS PRIORITY
⩥ ORIGIN: UNREGISTERED FREIGHTER
⩥ LOCATION: 27,000 KILOMETERS FROM GEONMU-7
⩥ MESSAGE: "Mayday—station Geonmu-7, do you copy? This is— [STATIC] — requesting immediate assist— [STATIC] —repeat, we are not alone out here—”
The message cut off abruptly.
Mark exhaled sharply. “That’s… close.”
“Too close,” Jeno muttered, narrowing his eyes at the signal’s coordinates. “A ship that size shouldn’t be drifting near us without clearance. We should’ve picked them up long before they got within range.”
Haechan leaned forward, staring at the glitching transmission logs. “Who the hell are they? That call sign—it's not from any Unified Systems Command vessel.”
Renjun's fingers danced over the console, attempting to re-establish a connection. “I don’t know. But if they’re that close and calling for help, we need to respond.”
Mark hesitated. “What if it’s a trap?”
Haechan wanted to believe this was just another stranded supply freighter—a civilian ship in trouble, lost in the same chaos they were. But something about that message… the way it cut off—it felt wrong.
Jeno glanced at him. “Your call, Lieutenant.”
Haechan took a deep breath, then gave a firm nod.
“Open a response channel.”
Renjun did. The holo-display flickered as he broadcasted on all emergency frequencies.
"Unknown vessel, this is Geonmu-7. We received your distress call. State your emergency and crew status."
Haechan exchanged glances with the others.
"Unknown vessel, confirm your identity. Do you require immediate evacuation?"
A slow chill crept into Haechan’s veins. He turned toward Mark. “Are we still picking up their signal?”
Mark checked. The distress beacon was still active. Still looping the same fragmented mayday message.
But the ship wasn’t responding.
Jeno frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If they were desperate enough to send an SOS, why aren’t they answering us?”
Renjun’s holo-interface stuttered, the audio feed crackling. Then—
Faint. Almost imperceptible beneath the static.
And then, every single console in the room blacked out.
A dead silence fell over the station.
Then OMEGA’s voice returned, colder than before.
"External interference detected. Unauthorized communication breach. Purging anomaly."
Renjun’s hands trembled over the controls. “That wasn’t interference. That was a warning.”
Mark swallowed hard. “Then we just made contact with something we shouldn't have.”
And somewhere, out in the dark void beyond the station, something was listening.
For a moment, everything was still. The holo-screens in Central Systems Control flickered off, leaving only the dim emergency strobes pulsing overhead. The station's once-familiar hum had faded into a suffocating silence. No comms. No OMEGA. No response from the unknown vessel.
Haechan felt it first—a deep tremor beneath his boots.
A violent shockwave tore through Geonmu-7’s structure, an earth-shattering detonation that came from nowhere. Metal screamed as the impact rippled through the hull. The overhead lights burst, raining shards of reinforced glass. A blast of force threw Haechan backward, slamming him against the bulkhead.
The sound that followed wasn’t just a normal explosion—it was hollow, unnatural, like a rupture in space itself.
Jeno barely had time to react. He grabbed onto the edge of the console, holding on as the floor beneath them lurched. “What the hell was that?”
Mark, coughing through the smoke, forced himself to his feet. “Hull breach—Section D-12—something just hit us!”
Renjun scrambled back to the terminal, desperately trying to restore comms, but the interfaces were unresponsive. “We’ve lost external communications! We can’t even send a distress signal!”
Haechan pushed off the bulkhead, his ears still ringing. His mind raced through protocol—station shields were active, defense systems operational—so how did something get through?
This time, it was sharper, targeted—not a random explosion, but a strike.
Mark checked the diagnostics, his fingers flying across the emergency backup interface. His expression darkened. “No projectile impact detected.”
Renjun stiffened. “Then what the hell just hit us?”
Another violent tremor. The station groaned, metal twisting under unseen pressure.
Jeno’s plasma sidearm was already in his hand. “Something’s boarding us.”
Haechan’s blood ran cold. “That’s not possible. No ship has docked.”
Then the alarms blared to life—but they weren’t the standard emergency sirens.
These were warfare sirens.
The kind that only activated in one scenario:
Hostile presence detected on board.
Renjun’s holo-screen flickered on, just for a moment, filled with distorted static—before a final, corrupted transmission scrawled across the interface.
"System sovereignty compromised. You are no longer alone."
And then, the station went dark.
[Chapter 1: "The Attack"]
The power flickered once. Then, a heartbeat later, Geonmu-7 erupted into chaos.
Haechan barely had time to register the meaning of OMEGA’s final, corrupted message before the first scream echoed through the comm channels. It was brief, choked—then cut off completely.
A warning siren blared throughout the station. Red emergency strobes cast long, jagged shadows across the control bay. Overhead, the pressure-sealed blast doors slammed shut across critical corridors—an automatic lockdown.
But it was already too late.
The comms interface spiked with garbled transmissions, voices overlapping in a frantic mess:
"They're inside! I repeat, they're—" [STATIC]
"Weapons free! We are under att—" [DISTORTION]
"—not human—" [UNINTELLIGIBLE SCREAMS]
No response from Command. No signal from the bridge.
Renjun’s hands flew over the emergency console, desperately trying to reestablish comms. “I can’t reach the command deck! It’s—” His voice faltered as the diagnostics finished running. The command center’s life signs had flatlined.
Jeno swore under his breath, gripping his plasma sidearm tighter. “They got wiped out already?”
Mark, still holding his side from where he’d been thrown earlier, forced out a breath. “That doesn’t make sense. How could they take out the entire command crew that fast? The bridge is the most secure section of the station.”
Haechan stared at the holo-screen, his mind racing. It wasn’t an explosion that killed them.
There was no decompression alert, no pressure loss. The officers hadn’t died from a breach in the hull—they’d been killed instantly, from inside the station.
“We need to move,” Haechan ordered, his voice steadier than he felt. “We’re sitting ducks here.”
A deep, resonant pulse—not like an alarm, not like an explosion. Something else. A vibration that didn’t belong, rattling the walls, traveling through the very core of the station. It wasn’t just noise; it was a presence.
And it was getting closer.
Renjun paled, his eyes snapping to Haechan. “What the hell is that?”
Jeno, already switching off his safety, answered without hesitation.
The lights flickered violently.
Then, with a final, mechanical hiss—the blast doors to their sector unlocked.
And beyond them, something stepped inside.
The blast doors groaned as they slid open.
A sharp gust of decompressed air hissed through the narrow corridor, carrying with it the stench of burnt metal and blood. The emergency strobes cast flickering light on the figures standing just beyond the threshold—bodies.
Haechan’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene. The security team assigned to this sector had been slaughtered. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Their faces—what was left of them—were frozen in expressions of pure terror.
He barely had time to process it before a new sound cut through the chaos.
Heavy. Deliberate. Coming closer.
Jeno raised his plasma sidearm. “Eyes up,” he warned. “We’ve got movement.”
Haechan’s grip tightened around his own weapon as the team instinctively shifted into formation. The air was thick—charged with something unnatural.
And then—from the smoke, Captain Seo staggered forward.
His uniform was ripped, charred along the edges. Blood smeared down the side of his face, pooling from a deep wound near his temple. One of his arms hung uselessly by his side, his breathing ragged and uneven.
“Captain!” Haechan lunged toward him, but Seo lifted a shaking hand.
“No,” the captain gasped. His eyes, wide with something between agony and desperation, locked onto Haechan’s. “Stay… back.”
Behind him, the corridor lights flickered violently.
Then, something moved in the dark.
A distorted silhouette, shifting unnaturally, flickering like a glitch in reality itself. A shape that did not belong. It loomed behind Seo, stretching toward him—long, twisting appendages of something not quite solid, not quite liquid.
Haechan barely had time to shout a warning before the captain convulsed.
Seo let out a sharp, ragged gasp as his entire body locked up—his veins darkening, spreading in jagged, unnatural patterns beneath his skin. His eyes, wide and glassy, turned black.
Then, in one sharp motion—he collapsed.
Haechan froze. The station’s captain—his commanding officer—was dead.
Renjun took a step back, barely containing a horrified whisper. “What the hell just happened?”
Mark clenched his jaw. “We need to move—now.”
Jeno’s stance remained rigid, gun still trained on the darkness beyond the corridor. “Whatever that thing is, it’s still there.”
Haechan’s heart pounded against his ribs, but there was no time for shock—no time to process.
Captain Seo was gone. And now, every surviving crew member was looking at him.
Haechan swallowed hard, forcing the weight of fear down his throat. He was just a logistics officer. He wasn’t supposed to lead.
But if he didn’t, they would all die here.
He tightened his grip around his weapon and forced himself to stand tall.
“Fall back,” he ordered, his voice steady. “We regroup at the secondary command center.”
Because whether he was ready or not, Haechan was now the highest-ranking officer left on Geonmu-7.
Haechan led the group through the emergency corridors, their boots thudding against the metal flooring. The station trembled beneath them, distant explosions rippling through the structure like aftershocks. Whatever was attacking them wasn’t done yet.
Jaemin was already moving before they reached the secondary command center. His medical kit clanked against his side as he dropped to his knees next to one of the wounded crew members—a technician from the reactor maintenance team.
The man was barely conscious, his uniform torn and stained with deep crimson.
“Jaemin,” Haechan called. “How bad is it?”
Jaemin pressed two fingers to the tech’s throat. Still breathing. But weak.
“Shrapnel wounds,” he muttered, cutting away the tattered fabric to examine the injury. The bleeding was bad, but not fatal—yet.
He reached for the med-gel applicator from his kit and pressed it to the wound. The device hissed, delivering a coagulant-infused foam that rapidly sealed the tear in the man’s flesh.
Jaemin’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t sustainable. The crew had limited supplies, no backup, and no access to the main infirmary. If they didn’t get power back online, these people wouldn’t survive.
Across the room, Renjun and Chenle worked frantically at the backup power console, their faces illuminated by the dim glow of failing holo-displays.
Renjun cursed under his breath as another sequence failed to process. The system wasn’t responding.
“Come on,” he muttered, fingers flying across the panel. “We just need auxiliary power. Just enough to stabilize life support—”
ERROR. POWER RELAY OFFLINE. MANUAL REBOOT REQUIRED.
Chenle groaned. “It’s the external relays. The whole grid is out.”
Renjun exhaled sharply, his mind racing. If the main grid was down, they had to bypass it.
“We need to reroute through the lower decks,” he said, adjusting the interface. “If we can patch into—”
For a second, the red emergency strobes dimmed, plunging the entire room into near-darkness.
Then, a low hum resonated through the walls—a distortion, like an energy pulse reverberating through the station’s core.
Chenle’s hands hovered over the controls. “Then what just powered on?”
Jaemin turned sharply, his medical scanner buzzing erratically.
Haechan looked to the main corridor.
Beyond the reinforced glass, a single console screen flickered to life.
A garbled, distorted voice crackled over the comms. Not OMEGA. Not human.
And then—the station trembled again.
Mark and Jeno moved quickly through the emergency corridors, their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit passageways. The station was dying around them—walls groaning, ventilation systems struggling to maintain pressure, and the overhead lights flickering like a fading pulse.
The escape pod bay was just ahead.
Mark tapped his wrist-mounted interface. “I’m trying to override the lockdown, but the system’s barely responding.”
Jeno clenched his jaw. “We won’t need it if the pods are intact.”
They rounded the final corner—and stopped dead in their tracks.
The launch bay doors were wide open. The viewing panel revealed an unsettling sight:
The escape pods were gone.
Jeno took a step forward, his fingers tightening around his weapon. “That’s not possible.”
Mark hurried to the control terminal, his hands flying across the interface. The holo-screen flickered violently, struggling to process commands.
Then the log data appeared.
EMERGENCY EVACUATION INITIATED
STATUS: ALL ESCAPE PODS LAUNCHED
TIME STAMP: 00:04 MINUTES AGO
Jeno read over his shoulder, voice grim. “Someone launched them.”
Mark shook his head. “No—something launched them.”
Jeno’s expression darkened. “You’re saying this wasn’t human?”
Mark pointed at the irregular time stamp. “The station’s AI was compromised before the attack. If it wasn’t OMEGA, then…”
He didn’t have to finish.
Jeno let out a slow breath, eyes scanning the empty bay. The emergency strobes cast eerie shadows against the reinforced metal, making the hollow launch tubes look like graves.
“Then whoever—or whatever—did this doesn’t want us to leave.”
A sharp metallic clang echoed from the far end of the chamber.
Mark and Jeno whipped around.
The maintenance hatch at the rear of the launch bay had just unlocked.
The pressure-sealed doors hissed open.
Something was coming through.
The command center was eerily quiet—too quiet. The distant hum of the station’s failing power grid and the sporadic flickers of dim, red emergency lights were the only indicators that Geonmu-7 was still holding together.
The remaining survivors stood in tense silence, the weight of realization settling over them like a crushing gravitational field.
Haechan’s gaze swept across the room. Seven survivors.
Jaemin was tending to the injured, working quickly with dwindling medical supplies. Mark stood near the central holo-display, scanning the station’s internal status with a deep frown. Jeno kept watch at the entrance, weapon raised, his stance rigid—ready for whatever might come next.
Renjun and Chenle hovered over the engineering console, frantically rerouting what little power they could salvage into life support and station defenses. Every few seconds, an error message would flash across the interface, reminding them how dire their situation was.
And then there was Haechan.
He had never seen the command center like this. Cold. Empty. Leaderless.
The main display—usually filled with real-time data from station sectors—was a mess of corrupt files and static interference. The connection to Earth Command was severed.
Their distress signal had been sent, but there was no reply. No confirmation. No reinforcements.
It had been twenty minutes since the attack started. Surely someone should have responded by now.
Jaemin broke the silence first. “I did a full body count on the way here.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “There’s no one else.”
Renjun’s fingers paused over the console. “Are you sure?”
Jaemin nodded grimly. “I checked every corridor we passed. Everyone else is either dead or missing.”
The words sank in, a bitter truth settling into their bones.
Haechan swallowed the knot in his throat.
Mark pressed a few commands into the central console, trying one last time to ping an external network. Nothing.
He turned toward Haechan. “If Command hasn’t responded yet, they’re either ignoring us—or they never got the signal.”
Jeno scoffed, tightening his grip on his weapon. “No way they’d ignore an attack on a classified orbital station.”
“Unless,” Renjun murmured, eyes scanning the corrupted system logs, “someone doesn’t want them to know.”
The words sent a chill through the room.
Haechan inhaled slowly. “So we assume the worst. No backup. No escape pods. No comms.” His voice remained steady, though his stomach churned. “Then we need to focus on what we can do.”
He turned to Renjun and Chenle. “Can we get long-range comms back online?”
Chenle shook his head. “Not from here. The main relay is fried. Best case scenario, we could jury-rig a transmission from the substation near the docking bay.”
Jeno crossed his arms. “That’s where we just came from.”
Mark frowned. “That area isn’t safe. We still don’t know what—”
A low rumble shook the station, cutting him off. The lights flickered violently, and for a brief second, all displays turned to static.
Then, over the station’s damaged intercom, a voice crackled through.
The screen glitched, revealing a single distorted transmission code.
Signal Origin: Geonmu-7—Internal
This wasn’t coming from outside.
The signal was coming from inside the station.
