You'd heard the whispers all morning. The Olo'eyktan's son. A demon on the battlefield. A monster who'd taken out an entire squad single-handedly.

They said he was sick. Feverish. Refusing to eat.

And you were just curious.

The restricted hallway stretched ahead of you, cold metal under your bare feet. You knew these halls better than anyone—had memorized every corner, every blind spot in the security cameras.

The door at the end was reinforced. Heavy. A small window at eye level.

You pressed your palm flat against the cool surface and peered inside.

He was massive—even shackled, even slumped against the wall. His chest heaved beneath the bindings, skin glistening with sweat. Blue. Striped. Marked with scars and tattoos that seemed to shift in the dim light.