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The burns along his lifelines looked methodical, targeted at specific junction points where the golden patterns connected. Hammond had been experimenting, trying to understand the lifelines, perhaps trying to extract information or energy.

I needed to establish some kind of communication. We were both Hammond’s prisoners; we should be allies by default. But the raw hostility in those golden eyes told me it wouldn’t be that simple.

“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.

Each swallow was deliberate, but it was the gaze—unblinking, sharp, and almost reverent—that made my heart race. Like I was no longer just a fellow prisoner, but something he was beginning to see."

A small victory, but I’d take it. If we were going to survive whatever Hammond had planned, we’d need to start trusting each other. Even if that trust began with something as simple as shared water.

The footsteps stopped outside our door. Keys jangled, the lock beeped, and the door swung open. Two armed guards stood there, stun batons at the ready.

Behind them, I glimpsed Phillips—Hammond’s second-in-command, thin and nervous-looking as ever.

“You. Blue. Get up,” one guard barked, pointing at the Nyxari. The meaning clear despite the language barrier.

The Nyxari’s expression hardened, but he made no move to resist. He knew, as I did, that resistance now would only bring pain.

When he struggled to stand, the guards stepped forward, roughly hauling him to his feet. His tail dragged lifelessly behind him as they forced him through the door.

“What about this one?” the second guard asked, gesturing toward me with his stun baton.

Phillips studied me dispassionately. “Not yet. Hammond wants to finish the current session first. Her turn comes tomorrow.”

As they hauled the Nyxari away, his eyes met mine once more. There was something different there now—not trust, not yet, but perhaps the first spark of recognition.

We were both prisoners here. Both Hammond’s victims.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The door slammed shut, the lock engaged, and I was alone with my thoughts. Hammond’s cruelty toward the Nyxari was a chilling preview of what awaited me tomorrow.

I needed to be ready. Needed to gather information, conserve my strength, find any advantage.

I sat on the edge of the crude shelf that served as a bed, running my fingers along the silver markings on my arms. They felt strangely resonant, almost musical beneath my skin.

Whatever Hammond had found here, he wasn’t just experimenting randomly. He had a purpose. A goal. And understanding that goal might be the key to our survival.

I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation from my markings, trying to interpret what they were telling me about this place. A low, persistent hum. Energy flowing through ancient conduits.

Systems dormant but not dead. And something else—a faint, discordant note that felt wrong somehow. Out of tune. Damaged.

Hammond was interfering with systems he didn’t understand. Again. And if history was any guide, the consequences would be catastrophic. For all of us.