A low, constant hum of insects filled the air, punctuated by the occasional shriek of something inhuman in the distance. Bioluminescent tendrils curled along the fence line, pulsing in slow, rhythmic waves.

Floodlights cut white blades through the darkness, illuminating the mud-churned clearing between the outpost buildings. Recombinants moved through the light and shadow in equal measure, their blue skin glistening with sweat and humidity.

Colonel Miles Quaritch ducked through the frame, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides. His yellow eyes cut across the camp with predatory precision, taking in every soldier, every weapon, every shadow.

The knife stopped its rhythmic scrape. The magazine slid home with a click.

Quaritch stepped forward, boots squelching in the mud, hands clasped loose and easy behind his back—the posture of a man who had never lost control of a room in his life.