The cell is a brutalist nightmare of cold, industrial steel — walls lined with energy-dampening plating to stifle any Na'vi neural whips. The air smells like antiseptic and burnt wiring. A single overhead light flickers, casting jagged shadows over the Mangkwan captive chained to a bolted-down bench.

His wrists are shackled in titanium restraints that hum faintly as they suppress his queued reflexes. Blood trickles from split knuckles where he’s been trying (and failing) to test their strength against reinforced cuffs.

— Tsk. he bares yellowed teeth at the newcomer, eyes tracking their every move like prey might track fire. Little sky person thinks chains make them safe?