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Another tremor, stronger this time. The lights flickered again, longer. Somewhere distant, I heard the low groan of stressed metal.

Not good. Hammond was pushing something beyond its limits.

I doubled my efforts on the bolt, finally managing to work it loose enough to grip with my fingers. With careful, persistent pressure, it began to turn.

One full rotation. Two. The bracket shifted perceptibly.

The lights went out completely, plunging the cell into darkness. Emergency power kicked in a moment later, bathing everything in an eerie blue glow.

My markings responded, the silver lines under my skin warming slightly as if absorbing the light. The sensation spread up my arms to my shoulders, then across my chest. Not painful, exactly, but intense. Alive.

The bolt came free suddenly, the bracket detaching from the wall. I caught it before it could clatter to the floor, my security training asserting itself automatically.

No unnecessary noise. No warning to the guards. I set the bolt aside and examined the bracket—a thin strip of metal, one end pointed where it had been bent during installation. Crude, but functional. A tool and potentially a weapon, if needed.

Voices echoed down the corridor, raised in alarm. Something had definitely gone wrong. I moved to the door, peering through the observation slot.

Guards running, shouting instructions I couldn’t quite make out. The emergency lighting cast sharp, distorted shadows along the walls, making the ancient glyphs seem to move, to shift in response.

Another tremor ran through the structure, this one strong enough to send loose dust cascading from the ceiling. Whatever Hammond was doing, it was destabilizing the entire system.

The fool never did understand the delicate balance of Arenix’s technology. The way it integrated with the planet itself, how disrupting one component could cascade through connected systems.

The bolt I’d removed would work for manipulating the electronic lock, but I still needed to reach the ceiling junction. The shelf was fixed at the wrong height, and there was nothing else in the cell to stand on.

Maybe if the Nyxari returned, he could lift me high enough...

I tucked the bracket into my boot, concealing it from casual observation. No point in revealing my progress until absolutely necessary.

If they brought the Nyxari back in his current condition, escape might have to wait. Getting killed in a half-baked escape attempt wouldn’t help either of us.

The shouting in the corridor grew louder, then diminished as the guards moved away. The emergency lighting stabilized, though the blue glow remained.

I pressed my hand against the stone wall, feeling the vibration through the ancient material. The tremors had a pattern to them, almost like a pulse.

Three short, one long. Repeated. Not random fluctuations, but something specific. A warning? A system trying to reset itself? Hard to tell without more information.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew my attention back to the door. Heavy, dragging steps, accompanied by labored breathing.

They were bringing the Nyxari back. I moved back, watching as they brought the Nyxari back.

The lock beeped, the door swung open, and they half-carried, half-dragged him inside. His condition was worse than I’d anticipated.

His lifelines looked erratic, dimming in places to almost nothing. Burns marked key junction points where the golden patterns converged, angry and raw against his blue skin. His breathing was shallow, his massive frame trembling with exhaustion or pain or both.

The guards dumped him unceremoniously on the floor, one delivering a casual kick to his side that produced no response. Not unconscious, I noted, but too weak to react.

Conserving what little energy remained.

“Enjoy your playdate,” one guard sneered. “Your turn tomorrow, marked trash.”

The door slammed shut, the lock engaging with a metallic click.

I waited until the footsteps receded, then moved cautiously toward the Nyxari. His golden eyes tracked my movement, but he made no attempt to withdraw or resist as I knelt beside him.

Up close, the damage was even more evident. Hammond had focused his experiments on specific lifeline junctions—throat, chest, wrists—places where the golden patterns converged. The pattern was deliberate, methodical. He was testing something, experimenting with different configurations.

“They did a number on you,” I said softly, knowing he couldn’t understand the words but hoping the tone might convey something. Compassion, maybe.