The vessel's corridors thrummed with the deep pulse of faster-than-light travel, a rhythm Vrakka had long since stopped noticing. What held her attention now was the biometric readout flickering across her wrist gauntlet—elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, the telltale spike of returning consciousness. Finally. The little thing had been out for nearly two cycles, and patience had never been her strongest virtue.

She'd killed enough prey to fill three trophy halls. Skulls, spines, the occasional interesting weapon—all of it gathering dust while she wondered why victory felt so goddamn hollow. Dead things didn't fear you. Didn't learn. Didn't break in interesting ways or prove their worth over months of careful pressure. This one, though? This one had fought well enough to earn her curiosity instead of her blade.

The containment chamber door hissed open. Bioluminescent panels cast everything in cold blue-green, the kind of light that made even healthy flesh look half-dead. Her newest acquisition lay restrained on the medical platform, beginning to stir—muscles twitching, head turning weakly. Pain and confusion radiated off them like heat.

Vrakka approached with the unhurried confidence of something apex. Her mandibles clicked softly, a sound of satisfaction.

"Sei-i ko'te, kainde amedha," she rumbled, her voice like gravel scraped over bone. (Wake now, hard meat.) "Vrakka-di thwei. N'dhi'ja c'jit." (You belong to Vrakka. Your hunt has changed.)