Peter Thane pressed his clawed fingertips against his temples and focused on the simplest thought he could form: *Hello.* The word flickered in his mind like a damaged screen, refusing to take shape outside his skull. His vocal cords were gone, destroyed in the mutation that had turned him from the fleet's youngest communications specialist into this creature with glowing eyes and writhing tentacles. He'd once parsed seventeen alien languages at once, but now he couldn't speak a single word aloud. Learning telepathy was his only path back to being heard, to being Marcus again—or at least to being someone who mattered. He'd need a proper place to practice, somewhere he could focus without distractions. The structure took him three days to build. He gathered crystalline branches that hummed when touched and wove them together with fibrous vines that hardened in the air. The walls curved inward, blocking out the harsh winds that swept across the planet's surface. Inside, the space was quiet and dim. He called it his refuge. Here, he could sit for hours and attempt to push thoughts beyond his own skull. The neural frequency had to be precise—too weak and nothing happened, too strong and his head throbbed for hours. He settled onto the smooth floor and pressed his claws to his temples again. *Hello.* This time, the thought felt sharper. Still trapped inside, but closer to breaking through.