Ethan Mercer ducked low and shouldered through the stone doorway of his quarters. The crystal points along the top of the frame scraped his shoulder. He swore, straightened, and tapped the morning number into his data pad. Seven feet, two inches. One more week, one more inch. He had to stop the growth before the symbiotes finished whatever they were building inside him. He measured the doorframe again, just to be sure. The numbers did not lie. He could not sleep here anymore. His cot was a child's toy. His ceiling pressed down like a hand. By afternoon, a work crew had rigged a wide glass dome at the edge of the settlement. They padded the floor with crates and hung a curtain for a door. It was the tallest open space left in the colony. Ethan walked in, sat down, and still brushed the curved panels with his head. He set the data pad on his knee and stared at the bright walls. This was the last roof that would hold him. He typed one line under the morning log. Three weeks, maybe less. Then he would have no shelter at all.

Morning light filled the glass dome. Ethan sat up on the padded crates and his head brushed the curved panels again. He tapped the data pad. Seven feet, three inches. One inch in five days, not seven. The rate was climbing. His stomach growled like an engine. He reached for the small metal sphere on the crate beside him. He had repurposed a med scanner meant for bloodstream bots into a calorie counter. He shook it, watched the lights pulse, and read the number. He needed twice yesterday's intake. Twice. A work crew dragged in a desk built from stacked cargo crates. They set it under the dome's tallest point. Ethan stood to thank them and the crew leader took a step back without meaning to. Ethan saw it. He sat down fast. He walked outside to clear his head. Past the dome stood the old stone sentinel the colony had found half-buried near the ridge. Ten feet of carved rock, arms crossed, beard down to its belt. Ethan stopped beside it. He lined up his shoulder with its shoulder. He was only a head shorter now. Last month he had stood at its chest. He went back inside and opened the data pad. He plotted the new curve against the old one. The line bent up sharp. He ran the math three times. At this rate, he would pass the stone sentinel in nine days. The dome would fail in twelve. Ethan set the pad down. His hands were shaking. He typed one line under the morning log. The growth is accelerating. Three weeks was wrong. I have twelve days.

Three mornings later, Ethan ducked through the dome's door and walked to the sentinel. He stood beside the stone giant and felt sun on the top of his head. The carved beard reached his collarbone now. He had passed it in six days, not nine. A work crew had planted something new beside the statue overnight. A black stone tree with red veins glowing inside it, taller than the sentinel by a full body length. A marker. They had built it for him to stand against. Ethan lined up his shoulder with the lowest branch and matched it exactly. He pulled the leather journal from his belt pouch and opened it on his knee. Sketches of the sentinel filled the early pages. He drew a new line above the old ones and wrote the number. Ten feet, one inch. He underlined it twice. His hand was steady. That scared him more than shaking. Behind him, a hammer rang on metal. He turned. A crew was bolting wide steps into the rock face near the dome. Crystal rails caught the light. The staircase climbed up to nothing yet, just open air at the top. He understood. They were building a platform because the dome would fail soon, and he would need somewhere to sit outside. The crew leader saw him watching and looked away fast. Nobody had told Ethan they were building it. Nobody had asked his measurements. They already knew. Ethan closed the journal. He had crossed the sentinel. The colony was building around his body now, not the other way around. He sat down on the bottom step, and the metal groaned under him.