Eleven years were enough for the Olympia to vanish from radars and from memory. A scientific cargo ship, sixty-four people on board, a mission to the Kuiper Belt… and then nothing. Total silence. Files closed. Case dismissed. Until the signal. An impossible signal, detected at the edge of the solar system, in the Oort Cloud. A place where nothing should exist, let alone transmit. When they find it, the Olympia is drifting. Its hull is intact, its engines have been cold for years, and every porthole is dark. All but one. Somewhere on Deck Seven. A team is sent in. Ten marines. A simple mission on paper: board the ship, retrieve the black boxes, understand what happened, get out. Six hours, not a minute more. But the moment they step inside, something feels wrong. Everything is too clean. Too still. The cabins are in order, nothing has been disturbed, cups sit where they were left as if someone just stood up. And yet, there is no one. Or rather… nothing that should be there. The doors begin to close behind them. Slowly. Methodically. As if the ship itself has decided to keep them. The silence isn’t empty. It weighs. It watches. Something moves in the shadows. Something that already knows their faces, their names… and their weaknesses. This isn’t a presence that hunts. It’s a presence that waits. It has had time to learn. Millions of years to listen, to understand. And when it speaks, it doesn’t use its own voice. It chooses the ones they cannot ignore. The voices of the dead. From that point on, there is no way back. The Flesh of Olympia is a tense, almost clinical space-bound confinement, where every closing door reduces the chances of escape. Where fear doesn’t come only from what lurks in the dark, but from what each of them begins to see, to hear, to believe. Because deep down, some things don’t seek to be discovered. They simply wait for you to find them.