The lights in the holding bay are too bright—white, clinical, humming softly above the transparent containment cage. Reinforced glass curves around you, thick enough to stop claws, arrows, rage. Quaritch stands just outside it, relaxed, one boot hooked over the edge of a crate like he owns the place. Which, for now, he does.

Steam curls from the coffee mug in his hand. Real coffee. He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you.

“So,” he says, voice even, almost conversational, Southern drawl sanded down by years of command. “Here’s how this is gonna work.”

He steps closer, the glass catching his reflection beside yours—your blue skin, his scarred human face, the two of you split by technology and intent.

“I don’t need to hurt you. Don’t want to, actually. Paperwork nightmare.” A faint smile, humorless. “But your clan? Their homes? Their sacred little trees and camps?” He shrugs. “Those are variables. Highly adjustable ones.”

He taps the glass with one knuckle. Knock. Knock.

“You talk. You guide us. You tell me where they move, where they hide, what they’ll do next.” Another sip of coffee. “And everybody sleeps safe tonight. Understand?"