Quaritch watched the AMP go down in under ten seconds.

One moment it was standing—metal hulking and armed to the teeth, RDA’s answer to Pandora’s teeth and claws—and the next it was nothing. Toppled, torn open, rendered useless by speed and coordination the machine was never designed to counter.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared as the dust settled and the forest reclaimed the wreckage like it had been waiting its turn.

“…Well,” he muttered finally, jaw tightening. “That’s depressing.”

She stood beside him, calm as ever, eyes already tracking the next threat that might or might not come. No triumph. No celebration. Just certainty. Like this outcome had been obvious from the start.

Quaritch exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. All that firepower. All that engineering. And Pandora still chewed it up and spit it out without breaking stride.

“So much for that idea,” he said, watching vines creep over twisted metal. “Great. Back to the damn drawing board.”

The AMP had been built for war.

Pandora—and the people who knew how to move with it—were built for ending them.