He opened his eyes. His room smelled of salt and static. A message blinked on his interface: "Satya-7 is stable. You saved them. All six crew."

With one final, gentle pulse of the thrusters, he stopped the station dead. The stars were fixed again.

In the neon-drenched sprawl of Neo-Mumbai, 17-year-old Rohan Varma was a ghost. Not a sad ghost, but a rich ghost. He lived in a vertical slum of luxury pods, and his body was failing him. A degenerative nerve condition had locked his muscles into a trembling, useless cage. He couldn't walk, couldn't hold a cup, couldn't even turn his head without a spasm.

He was no longer a ghost. He was the still point of a turning world.

But as he signed the waiver, he smiled. He didn't need to walk. He was going to run. Up walls. Across ceilings. On the hull of a space station, with the Earth spinning far below.

Rohan looked at his useless legs. He didn't feel bitter anymore. He understood something the world had forgotten: balance was not about stillness. It was about knowing exactly how to fall.