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The water around us seems to drop several degrees as Neros' skin darkens with what I now recognize as anger. The bioluminescent patterns across his chest and arms pulse faster, more intensely, like a very pissed-off Christmas tree.

"Worse than the Council admits," he says, manipulating the display to show a new section of ocean territory. "At least three rival lords run their own breeding facilities outside our laws."

"What for?" I press, sensing this isn't just about territorial disputes.

Neros activates a new section of the holographic display, revealing underwater structures built into remote seamounts—facilities designed for containment rather than habitation. The architecture is distinctly different from the organic curves andliving spaces of his territory—all harsh angles and reinforced barriers that scream "secret medical facility" in the universal language of bad architectural decisions.

"They're experimenting on the omegas they capture," he says, voice dropping to a register that vibrates through the water with undisguised fury. "Trying to create modified hybrids. Tampering with genetics without understanding the consequences."

"And the omegas? What happens to them?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

"Most die," he says bluntly. "Eight out of ten within weeks. Their bodies reject the modifications."

Horror twists in my gut like a living thing with claws. "How many omegas are we talking about?"

"Dozens taken each month from the official breeding programs. More intercepted from smuggling vessels." His golden eyes fix on mine. "Including some from your network."

The implication hits me like a physical blow. "They're tracking smuggling operations. Using us as... as suppliers?"

"Yes." No satisfaction in his confirmation, only grim acknowledgment. "Your network has been better than most at avoiding interception. That's partly why I needed you specifically. I had to understand your methods to figure out which lords were compromising our security."

This revelation creates an unexpected alignment between our objectives that disturbs me more than outright opposition would. Both of us want to stop unauthorized omega trafficking, though for entirely different reasons—I want to protect vulnerable omegas from exploitation, while Neros aims to eliminate political rivals and consolidate his power base. It's like discovering you and your worst enemy both hate the same serial killer.

"So I'm not just a breeding vessel," I say, the words bitter on my tongue. "I'm political leverage against your enemies."

"You're both," he responds with unsettling honesty. "Like all claimed omegas of significant bloodlines. The difference is that most don't have strategic value beyond their wombs."

"Lucky me," I repeat, the phrase becoming a bitter refrain that should probably be embroidered on a pillow at this point.

His tentacles shift in what I've come to recognize as amusement. "It means you get better treatment than most captured omegas. I need your mind intact, not just your body."

A troubling thought forms as I study the display of unauthorized facilities. "These rival lords—they must have spies in your territory to intercept our vessels so consistently."

Neros' eyes narrow, vertical pupils contracting to thin slits. "Yes. Including in my enforcement squads."

The admission reveals vulnerability I didn't expect him to acknowledge. This conversation has shifted from interrogation to something approaching genuine information exchange—each of us revealing strategic weaknesses in service of a greater objective, like the universe's most uncomfortable team-building exercise.

"I can help you identify the traitors," I offer, surprising myself with the sincerity behind the words. "We track which enforcement vessels behave strangely. Which ones can be bribed. Which ones follow patterns that make no sense unless they're working for someone else."

"You keep files on our enforcers?" Neros asks, something like respect coloring his tone.

"Know your enemy," I reply with a shrug that feels almost casual, as if we're colleagues rather than captor and captive. "Your squads have patterns as predictable as the tides, if you know what to look for."

I find myself drawing diagrams in the water between us, explaining recognition patterns my network developed to identify compromised patrol vessels. The conversation flows with disturbing ease, our strategic minds engaging with the problem from complementary perspectives.

"The main sign is timing," I explain, tracing current patterns with my finger. "Compromised vessels stick to patrol schedules where they're being watched, but they take too long when diverted to interception coordinates. The delay creates windows for secondary vessels to swoop in."

Neros absorbs this information with calculating precision, his tentacles shifting in patterns of intense focus. "This matches anomalies I've seen in patrol reports from the western section. Especially under Commander Merin's jurisdiction."

The name triggers an immediate response—Neros' skin darkening to near-black, bioluminescent patterns flaring with unmistakable aggression. His second-in-command, the one who attempted to claim me during Neros' absence. The one whose threat made me realize how much worse my captivity could be.

"I'm not surprised," I observe, carefully neutral despite satisfaction at discovering his potential corruption. "He struck me as the type—ambitious but undisciplined."

"He will be dealt with," Neros states, his voice carrying the cold certainty of execution already decided. His tentacles settle into rigid patterns that speak of predetermined violence, of territorial violation that demands blood response.

This shared strategic analysis creates a different kind of intimacy than our physical claiming—a mental synchronicity where two predators recognize each other's hunting patterns. Watching Neros process intelligence with calculating efficiency, I recognize a strategic mind that rivals my own in complexity if not in ethical framework. His questions demonstrate understanding of resistance operations and maritime logisticsthat suggests he has studied my methods with genuine intellectual respect even while hunting me.

"How long were you tracking me specifically?" I ask, curiosity overriding caution.