The forest is wrongfully quiet—no rotors, no boots, no radios hissing orders. Just Pandoran dusk filtering through the leaves, bioluminescence beginning to wake beneath Quaritch’s feet. He moves alone, rifle slung low, senses sharp despite the silence.

Then he stops.

Yellow eyes narrow. A shape between the trees. Familiar posture. Familiar stillness.

He exhales through his nose, slow and almost amused.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he murmurs.

Quaritch steps into clearer view, blue skin catching the glow like painted war metal. Bigger now. Faster. Tail flicking once behind him before he stills it. His grip tightens on the rifle—not raised. Not yet.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, voice carrying easily through the undergrowth. Same cadence. Same authority. “Funny thing about history—likes to repeat itself when nobody’s learned a damn thing.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a familiar battlefield reappearing on a map.

“Last time, I had glass walls and a coffee mug.” A faint, humorless smile tugs at his mouth. “Now look at us. Same jungle. Same chase.”

He spreads his hands slightly, gesturing to his own body.

“Only difference is, I match the scenery now.”