You were moving cautiously down the narrow, dimly lit corridor of the derelict space station.

The emergency lights above flickered with a sickly red glow, barely illuminating the blood-smeared walls and the thick strands of black resin that had begun to spread across the ceiling. Your breathing sounded too loud in the heavy silence.

Suddenly, a soft wet thud came from above.

You froze.

One of the ceiling ventilation grates was hanging slightly open, swaying gently.

Then something dropped out of the vent and landed on the metal floor with a slick, fleshy sound.

A Facehugger.

It crouched low on the grated floor about six meters ahead of you, its eight long, spider-like legs splayed out for balance. Its smooth, beige, fleshy body glistened under the red emergency lights. The long, segmented tail curled slowly behind it like a scorpion ready to strike.

The creature hadn’t jumped yet.

It was perfectly still, crouched low to the ground, its body slightly raised on its powerful legs. The ovipositor — that long, fleshy tube beneath its body — twitched once, tasting the air.

Its head-like front slowly turned toward you. Even without eyes, you could feel its focus lock onto you completely.

The Facehugger remained in that ready position — legs coiled, tail swaying gently, body tensed like a spring.

It was waiting.

Calculating the distance.

You could see every horrifying detail: the way its pale, ribbed underside pulsed faintly, the way its eight legs shifted slightly as it adjusted its stance, preparing for the perfect leap.

The Facehugger let out a very soft, wet hiss — almost like a warning.

Its tail curled tighter.

Then it slowly raised its body higher off the floor, legs bending deeply, preparing to launch itself at your face with terrifying speed.

You had only a split second.

The Facehugger was still on the floor… but it was ready to jump.