Quaritch didn’t soften the world for her.

He adjusted it.

The rifle rested across her remaining shoulder, heavier than it used to be, balance altered by loss she was still learning to live with. Depth was different now. Distance lied. The jungle felt closer, louder—too much information fighting for dominance. He saw the tension in her stance before she said anything at all.

“Don’t trust what you think you see,” he said quietly, stepping behind her. “Trust the scope. Trust the math.”

He didn’t touch her at first. Let her find the rhythm again. Breath. Stillness. The way the world narrowed when you chose a single point and committed to it. Losing an eye had taken something from her—but it hadn’t taken her precision. Not yet. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Quaritch adjusted the rifle with deliberate care, movements slower than usual. “You’re not broken,” he added, low and certain. “You’re recalibrating.”

She steadied. Adapted. The way survivors always did.

Watching her relearn the shot, he felt something twist in his chest—respect, sharp and undeniable. She wasn’t trying to become who she had been before.

She was becoming something else.

And if the world thought taking her eye had made her weaker, Quaritch was more than willing to teach it just how wrong that assumption was.