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H ours passed in silence after they took the Nyxari away. I’d inspected every inch of our cell—the electronic lock mechanism, the conduit junction running along the ceiling, the composition of the salvaged plating, the ancient stone inscriptions.

Nothing immediately useful without tools. The junction box was promising, but… no tools, and I still couldn’t figure out how to reach it.

My markings continued to respond to something in the ruins. The sensation was unlike anything I’d experienced before—not quite pain, not quite pressure, but a persistent awareness, as if they were trying to connect to something just out of reach.

I brushed my fingers along the stone wall where ancient Nyxari glyphs had been carved into the surface. The symbols seemed older than those I’d seen at the Eastern Settlement, the patterns more complex, more structured somehow.

My markings tingled as I traced one particular sequence—a repeating spiral motif surrounding what looked like a stylized crystal or gem.

The sensation reminded me of the first time I’d interfaced with a damaged console during our escape from Hammond’s previous lab. That same electric awareness, that feeling of connection forming.

I’d been able to access systems the others couldn’t, to interpret data streams that even Mirelle found challenging. “System Whisperer,” she’d called it, half-joking.

But there was nothing amusing about the way my markings had burned afterwards, or the headaches that had plagued me for days.

A faint tremor ran through the floor, followed by a momentary flicker in the dim lighting. Whatever Hammond was doing to the Nyxari, it was affecting the power systems.

I wondered how much energy he was drawing, and from what source. The ruins had their own power grid, ancient technology integrated with the structure itself. If Hammond was interfering with that...

I turned my attention to more practical matters. The makeshift bed was bolted to the wall with salvaged brackets.

If I could work one loose, the metal might serve as a tool. I moved my fingers along the underside, feeling for weaknesses in the mounting.

There—a bolt not fully tightened, probably due to haste during construction. I worked at it carefully, using the edge of my boot heel for leverage.

Each small movement produced a minute shift. Progress, but painfully slow.

My thoughts turned to the Nyxari warrior. His condition had been bad when they took him, and he’d be worse when they brought him back. Hammond’s experiments were never gentle.

I’d seen what he’d done to Claire before we rescued her—the way he’d tried to amplify her markings, to force an interface with ancient technology. The memory still made my stomach clench with anger.

What would I be facing tomorrow when it was my turn? Similar experiments, most likely. Hammond’s obsession with the markings hadn’t diminished.

If anything, it had grown more focused, more fanatical. The crash had damaged his mind, or perhaps merely revealed what had always been there, beneath the surface of the competent security chief.

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.

Or at least the absence of threat. I reached for the canteen I’d set aside earlier, half-expecting him to reject it again. Holding out the canteen again, I simply said, “Water.” He needed it.

To my surprise, he didn’t resist as I held the canteen to his lips. He drank greedily, his eyes never leaving my face.

Evaluating. Calculating. Even in his weakened state, the warrior’s mind remained sharp, analyzing potential threats and advantages.

“Easy,” I murmured. “Small sips.”

When he’d emptied the canteen, I set it aside and hesitated. The burns along his lifelines needed treatment, but I had nothing except...

I tore a strip from the hem of my shirt, dampened it with the few drops of water remaining in the canteen, and reached toward one of the burns on his chest.

He tensed but didn’t pull away as I began gently bathing the damaged areas.

My fingers moved over his skin with more care than I expected to feel.

Every line I touched buzzed with heat, as if the space between us was waking up.

Up close, I could see that the burns weren’t just superficial—they penetrated deeper, affecting the lifelines themselves.

Whatever Hammond was using—energy probes, direct current, some kind of field generator—it was specifically targeting the golden patterns, disrupting their natural flow.

“These look bad,” I said, continuing the one-sided conversation. It helped me think, even if he couldn’t understand.

“I’ve seen something similar before, when Hammond experimented on Claire. Like he’s trying to integrate technology with your biology. It’s barbaric.”

The cloth brought temporary relief to the damaged tissue, the Nyxari’s breathing becoming slightly less labored as I worked. I moved to a burn at his throat, where the lifelines formed a complex nexus before branching outward.

Then something unexpected happened—where my fingers brushed near his lifelines, a strange sensation sparked between us. Not pain, but resonance.

A foreign vibration, discordant yet somehow complementary. Like two instruments playing in different keys, creating harmony despite the clash.

I flinched away, staring at my hand where my own silver markings had briefly warmed in response. The sensation spread up my arm, a gentle tingle that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“What was that?” I whispered, more to myself than to him.