Quaritch left for three days.

Three. Not weeks. Not months. Long enough to deal with a skirmish, remind a few people who was in charge, and come back expecting the same controlled chaos he’d left behind.

Instead, he came back to that.

The thantor stood at the edge of camp like it owned the place—massive, scarred, very much alive. Calm. Alert. And unmistakably bonded. Its breath fogged the air in slow, steady huffs, eyes tracking movement with the lazy confidence of an apex predator that had decided it was… comfortable.

Quaritch stared.

Then he looked at her.

Then back at the thantor.

“You’re gonna tell me,” he said slowly, disbelief bleeding straight into his voice, “that while I was gone—while I was gone—you decided to tame the meanest, angriest murder-beast on this planet?”

No injuries. No broken camp. No visible signs of coercion. Just her standing there like this was a perfectly reasonable development, hand resting against hide that had killed seasoned hunters without hesitation.

Quaritch dragged a hand down his face, letting out a breath that was half laugh, half existential crisis.

“I leave you alone once,” he muttered, eyes never leaving the thantor, “and you make friends with something that can turn me into paste.”

The thantor snorted softly, unimpressed.

Quaritch exhaled again, long and resigned.

Pandora really didn’t miss a single opportunity to remind him that control here was always temporary—and apparently, so was his understanding of what she was capable of.