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“They do experiments on you too?” I asked, keeping my voice low. Without the translator stone, he likely couldn’t understand me, but tone sometimes transcended language barriers.

I kept my posture open, non-threatening, despite the ache in my muscles from the rough handling.

No response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just that unnerving stillness, that deliberate rejection of my presence.

The cell was small, maybe ten by twelve feet. Stone floor, stone back wall inscribed with Nyxari glyphs, salvaged plating for the other three walls.

A crude shelf jutted from one wall—a bed, I supposed. A waste disposal unit in one corner, salvaged from the Seraphyne’s emergency systems. A single light fixture embedded in the ceiling, giving off a dim, flickering glow.

I examined the electronic lock mechanism visible on our side of the door. Standard salvaged tech, tied into what looked like a makeshift power grid.

The exposed conduit junction running along the ceiling might provide access to the locking system, but I’d need to reach it first, and I’d need something conductive to override the circuit. Not impossible, but not easy either.

My gaze returned to the Nyxari warrior. Despite his weakened state, he was a potential resource—stronger than me, possibly familiar with the ruins or at least Nyxari construction techniques. If I could just get through to him...

“I’m Zara,” I said, tapping my chest. “Zara.” Universal gestures were worth a try.

In that moment, something shifted—subtle, but undeniable. His eyes didn’t soften, but they held me a fraction longer than before, like the sound of my name had lodged somewhere deeper than language. But other than that, still nothing. Just that wall of silence, that deliberate turning away.

The minutes stretched into hours. I inspected every inch of our cell, looking for weaknesses, for opportunities. The Nyxari remained motionless except for the occasional tremor that ran through his frame.

Exhaustion tugged at me, but I fought it off. I needed to stay alert, to observe the guards’ patterns, to look for any advantage.

The sound of heavy boots in the corridor signaled a guard approaching. The observation slot opened, and a small canteen of water dropped through, clattering against the stone floor.

I caught it before it rolled away. The slot slammed shut again without a word.

I unscrewed the cap and took a small sip, letting the tepid liquid soothe my parched throat. It tasted faintly of minerals, with an underlying taste that suggested it had been stored in salvaged containers, perhaps stale or mineral-heavy.

Not enough for two people, not really.

The Nyxari still hadn’t moved, but a fine tremor ran through his frame. Dehydration, probably. I hesitated, then moved closer, canteen extended.

“Water,” I said, simulating drinking, then holding it out. “You need it more than I do.”

For the first time, he responded—minutely. His golden eyes flicked to the canteen, then to my face.

Something like confusion crossed his features before he looked away again, clearly torn between need and pride. Up close, I could see the extent of his suffering—the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled against the stone, the shallow rhythm of his breathing.

“Don’t be stubborn,” I said, my tone deliberately light despite the language barrier. “I can see you’re hurting.”

I edged closer, noting how his tail twitched away from my approach—the first movement I’d seen from it. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “Hammond is going to keep working on both of us. We need to keep our strength up.”

When he still made no move to take it, I set the canteen down within his reach and backed away. “Your choice.”

I returned to the door, studying the corridor through the small observation slot. Two guards stationed at the far end, engaged in conversation. A third patrolling, passing every fifteen minutes or so.

Standard rotation. The layout I’d seen suggested we were in a sub-level, at least one floor down from the main entrance. Escape would mean navigating unknown corridors, likely encountering more guards, then making it past the perimeter defenses.

Not impossible. But not simple either. Especially with an injured and uncooperative Nyxari.

The sound of boots in the corridor again—heavier this time, multiple people. Guards coming our way. I moved back from the door, positioning myself where I could see both the entrance and my cellmate.

As the footsteps drew closer, I glanced at the still-untouched canteen beside the Nyxari. “They’re coming back,” I said quietly. “Last chance to hydrate.”

His golden eyes met mine briefly, something unreadable in their depths—maybe resignation, maybe calculation. But I saw it. That split-second vulnerability. And it made something inside me ache with the need to reach him. Then, slowly, painfully, he reached for the water.

His massive hand engulfed the canteen, and he drank in small, measured sips, never taking his eyes off me.