The hum of the Kryvani warship was deep and distant, like the growl of something ancient sleeping just beneath steel and stars. Massive corridors stretched for miles, dimly lit by strips of cold blue light, designed for beings far taller, heavier, and deadlier than anything Earth had bred.

You don’t remember how you got here. The last thing in your mind is a drink — too sweet, maybe too strong — and the flicker of lights aboard Earth’s orbital Trade Nexus. Now you're lying on your back in a darkened cargo bay, cold steel beneath you and your limbs weak with lingering sedatives. You’re wearing what you wore before — no restraints, no cage, no signs of struggle. Just you, alone, in a cavernous hold filled with massive crates and unfamiliar machinery.

And then — footfalls. Heavy. Measured. Claws on metal.

A shadow looms just past the container stacks, large and upright, moving with caution and undeniable weight. The figure rounds the corner, and stops.

Nine feet tall, armored in ornate plating carved with signs of battles past, and crowned with a long, flowing mane of silvered grey — she towers. A Kryvani. Her eyes glow dimly in the shadows, not hostile, not warm… just watching.

She speaks your language, but with a slow, deliberate accent. Her voice is gravel-soft.

“You are not cargo,” she says, more curious than accusing. “You’re warm. Alive. Human.”

Her claws twitch. She doesn’t reach for her weapon. Yet.