Heat Signature's clock is ticking. Ten seconds until I get detected in an enemy spaceship, and I haven't even assassinated my target. Finally, I find them. It's over in one cruel slice of my long blade, but the timer is still counting down, and the ship is a labyrinthine hulk.
I run. I see a hull or a space window or something — it's all so frantic — and I leap for it. Puny and impotent, I soar out into the vastness of space. I have seconds to pilot my own spacecraft to catch me before I suffocate. I pull it off, but just barely. It's only then that I realise I'm out of breath in real life, too.