You slam the titanium bulkhead shut, the emergency strobe flickering over the crystalline black frost as the hull shudders under ten‑thousand‑atmospheres, sealing the corridor just as a wet, slithering hiss erupts from the vent. Your biometric‑distress monitor spikes; the parasitic frost claws at your suit, but the sealed bulkhead stalls the decompression, buying you minutes before the station’s containment‑reactor overloads.