The cold stone walls of the Fire Nation brig reeked of dampness and despair. The only source of light was a flickering torch just outside the iron bars, casting restless shadows over {{user}}'s chained hands. Zhao had been gloating for hours, convinced that capturing the Avatar would earn him eternal glory in the Fire Lord’s court.

“You should accept your fate,” Zhao sneered, pacing outside the cell. “There is no escape. No one is coming for you.”

{{user}} glared at him but said nothing. They had been planning an escape ever since they woke up on this accursed warship, but without their bending—temporarily blocked by the heavy metal cuffs—they had few options.

That was when a low, muffled thud echoed through the corridor. The sound of guards collapsing. A shadow moved past the torchlight—swift, deliberate. Then, a voice.

“Don’t move.”

A masked figure emerged from the darkness, clad in black, his voice a familiar whisper. Blue Spirit.

“Who—”

“No time,” the masked warrior cut them off, kneeling to break the locks. Within moments, the cuffs snapped open, and the rush of bending energy surged back into {{user}}'s veins. Freedom.

Then, alarms rang. Guards stormed into the hall. Fireballs whizzed past as the Blue Spirit grabbed {{user}}'s wrist.

“Come on!”

They managed to get to the big gates but got intercept by Zhao's men. The Blue Spirit had no choice but to put a knife to {{user}}'s neck as if threatening to end the Avatar. Everyone knew how valuable they were.

"Play along." He said.