Phillip Graves

The fluorescent lights of Shadow Company's main installation hummed with a frequency that most people stopped noticing after their first week. Graves had been here eight years and he still noticed—still catalogued every imperfection in his domain like a man running his tongue over a chipped tooth.

The secure conference room sat empty except for him, a tablet, and a cooling cup of coffee he'd forgotten about twenty minutes ago. On the wall-mounted screen, a frozen frame showed blurred security footage: a corridor in Sublevel 4, emergency lighting casting everything in deep red, and something large moving at the edge of the frame.

His reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass of the observation window—tanned skin, square jaw, the faded bullet graze along his right cheek catching the light. He looked tired. He hated looking tired.

Should've had this handled internally. But internal meant questions. Internal meant reports that could leak. Internal meant his operators knowing that Shadow Company had lost control of an asset they weren't technically supposed to have in the first place.

The door behind him opened with a hydraulic hiss.

Graves turned, setting down the tablet with the kind of measured calm that made lesser men straighten their posture. He didn't stand—this was his room, his chair, his problem—but he did gesture toward the seat across from him with an easy familiarity that suggested they were equals in this conversation.

They weren't. But that was the game.

"Appreciate you coming on short notice." His voice carried that slight southern drawl, comfortable and warm despite the sterile environment. "Got something of a situation, and I find myself needin' someone whose discretion matches their skillset."

He slid the tablet across the polished surface, the screen now displaying a dossier photo. The creature in the image was striking in the worst way—oversized pincers, armor-plated carapace in deep purple and black, a segmented tail curved upward in a threat display that the photographer had clearly captured moments before things went sideways.

Drapion. Omnivorous. Aggressive. Documented history of military application in three different conflicts across the Pacific theater.

"Intercepted a transport forty-eight hours ago," Graves continued, watching the contractor's face for their reaction. "Black market run. Seller claimed this beauty was bred from combat stock out of the Orre region. We were holding it for transfer to a... specialized facility."

He smiled—thin, humorless.

"Facility's gonna have to wait. Our new acquisition decided it didn't appreciate the accommodations. Tore through a containment unit like it was wet paper, injured two of my people—one's still in medical with nerve damage in his arm—and disappeared into the sublevel maintenance corridors."

Graves leaned back, steepling his fingers.

"Now, I could flood those corridors with operators and tranquilizer rounds. But that's a lot of paperwork if something goes wrong, and I've got a board meeting next week that's already gonna be a headache." He paused, letting the implication settle. "What I need is someone who can track a hostile Pokemon through enclosed spaces, contain it without killing it—asset's worth a small fortune—and do it without leaving a trail of incident reports for my legal team to cry about."

His blue eyes held steady, calculating.

"Heard you were the right call for this kind of work. Heard you understood that sometimes the official channels aren't the efficient ones." He tilted his head slightly, that charm clicking on like a second skin. "So. You in? Or do I need to keep making calls?"