The sound of running water cut through the jungle.

Quaritch crouched at the edge of a narrow river, one knee braced against the slick stones as he set his rifle within reach. He leaned forward, scooping cold water into his hands and dragging it down his face, washing away dirt, sweat, and dried blood. His breathing stayed controlled, measured—trained not to give anything away.

He paused, water dripping from his jaw, and glanced at his reflection in the rippling surface. Not lost. Not beaten. But still not recognizing himself in his reflection..this new blue body…

Raising his wrist and his fingers to his neck, he spoke again, low and firm. “Command, this is Quaritch. Signal’s still dead. I’m moving south along the riverbed. Acknowledge.”

Static answered.

He dropped his arm, jaw tightening slightly as he rinsed his hands once more, standing slowly despite the pull of pain in his side. The forest remained silent, watching.

Quaritch reached for his rifle, completely unaware of the presence hidden among the leaves above the riverbank—eyes on him, bow drawn, waiting.