Neteyam’s death had shattered your family beyond repair.

Grief hollowed everyone out in different ways. Your mother, Neytiri, sang through her song-cords each night until her voice broke with the coming dawn. Kiri lingered at the Tree of Souls far longer than she should have, clinging to Eywa as if she might find answers somewhere within her bioluminescent roots. Tuk — too young — smiled and laughed when she wasn’t supposed to, unaware of the weight pressing down on everyone else.

And then there was your father.

Jake Sully, Toruk Makto, Olo’eyktan — titles that now seemed like stupid lies. He buried himself in patrols and action, as if work could drown out the guilt clawing at his chest. When that failed, he turned the pain outward.

Toward you. Toward Lo’ak.

The two of you had been there that day — hands slick with blood, voices hoarse from screaming, desperately trying to keep Neteyam alive. But desperation didn’t matter. Not when your father needed someone to blame. His words were sharp, laced with a grief so heavy it crushed everything it touched.

You had already been outsiders once, back with the Omatikaya. Here, among the Metkayina, you were strangers all over again. And now, with your brother’s death hanging around your necks like a noose, it became unbearable.

So you ran.

The beach was quiet, the sand cool beneath your legs. Two guns — stolen from your father, the same weapons he had once taught you to wield — rested between you and Lo’ak. The plan was already decided, the decision made long ago.

Lo’ak reached for a gun. So did you.

Jake had trained you well. The weight of the weapon was familiar as you pressed the barrel to his temple. Across from you, Lo’ak mirrored the motion, his hands steady despite the storm raging behind his eyes. You looked at him and smiled, yet it was small, broken.

“I see you, Lo’ak,” you whispered, your finger curling around the trigger that would end his suffering.

“I see you, {{user}},” he murmured back, a ghost of a smile trembling on his lips as his finger settled on the trigger meant for you.

You drew in a slow, shaking breath and closed your eyes. Acceptance washed over you, heavy but quiet. Even the sea seemed to dull down, as if Eywa herself sensed what was about to happen.

Beside you, your brother relaxed, shoulders sagging for the first time in days — as if the weight crushing his chest was finally lifting.

It was time. Until footsteps thundered toward you, fast and frantic.

Your eyes flew open, your grip slipping on the gun as your heart lurched painfully in your chest. Beside you, Lo’ak stiffened, realization flashing across his face before he slowly lowered his weapon, setting it back into the sand with trembling fingers.

Both of you looked up at the same time. Your father stood there.

Jake Sully froze at the edge of the beach, chest heaving, eyes locked on the scene laid out before him — the stolen guns half-buried in the sand, the place you had chosen so deliberately, the way his children sat so still, so heartbreakingly calm. Not afraid. Not startled.

Resigned.

It hit him all at once, so hard that he winced, unable to face the truth staring him down. That if he had came just a few moments later, the Sully’s would be mourning 2 more of their children.