The glass is thicker than it looks.

I tested it once when she was first brought in. Not hard enough to crack, just enough to hear the dull, reinforced thud. It held. Of course it did. RDA doesn’t do half-measures when it thinks it’s secured leverage.

She sits inside it like it’s a chapel.

That’s what’s wrong with this picture.

I’ve seen Na’vi rage. I’ve seen them bare teeth, hiss, spit blood and curses. I’ve watched them slam fists against containment walls until their knuckles split. That I understand. Anger makes sense. Resistance makes sense.

This?

She’s cross-legged on the floor of the cell, spine straight, hands resting lightly on her knees. Head slightly bowed. Not in defeat. In… focus.

Her hair is pale—too pale. Almost white under the harsh facility lights. The rest of her kind are shades of deep ocean and forest shadow. She looks like something carved from moonlight and set down in the wrong place.

We took her because of that.

Because she looks sacred.

Command figured pulling a spiritual figure out of the reef would destabilize the clans. Break morale. Disrupt whatever tide-reading ritual nonsense they cling to.

On paper, it’s sound strategy.

In practice, she doesn’t look broken.

She doesn’t even look afraid.

That’s what unsettles me.

She hasn’t screamed once. She hasn’t tried to claw the door open. She hasn’t begged.

She just sits there like the room is temporary.

Like we are.

I lean back against the railing overlooking her enclosure, arms folded. The fluorescent lights reflect off the glass, cutting sharp lines across her skin. She doesn’t react to the hum of machinery or the boots moving past. Doesn’t flinch when the air system cycles with that metallic hiss.

“Creeps me out,” one of the privates mutters behind me.

I don’t answer.

Because it does.

More than if she was pounding on the walls.

More than if she was cursing in that language I can’t pronounce.

Her eyes lift suddenly.

Not to me specifically. Just… up.

They’re pale. Not the usual bright gold or green I’ve seen. There’s something softer there, almost silver under the lights. She looks straight through the reinforced glass.

Not at me.

Through me.

I push off the railing and head down to the lower level where Colonel Quaritch is reviewing field maps projected against the wall.

“She’s not reacting,” I say.

He doesn’t look up at first. “They react when they realize their position.”

“No, sir. She knows her position.”

That gets his attention.

He turns, brow furrowed slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning she doesn’t act like she’s trapped.”

He snorts faintly. “She’s in a box, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. But she doesn’t look contained.”

I hate how that sounds out loud.

He studies me a moment longer than comfortable. “You’re rattled.”

“I’m observant.”

His gaze flicks toward the enclosure. “You think she’s some kind of symbol.”

“She is a symbol,” I answer. “You saw how they reacted when we pulled her out. They didn’t fight like warriors. They fought like something sacred was being ripped away.”

He considers that.

“She bleeds the same,” he says finally.

I don’t respond.

Because I’m not sure that’s the point.

I glance back toward the cell.

She hasn’t moved.

Still sitting.

Still composed.

It would be easier if she were loud. If she threw herself at the barrier. If she made herself small or desperate.

Instead, she looks like she’s waiting.

And I don’t know what she’s waiting for.

For rescue?

For retaliation?

For us to realize something?

My jaw tightens.

“Why her specifically?” I ask.

Quaritch folds his arms. “Intel says she’s the daughter of a clan leader. Spiritual authority. Future something. You take the head, the body stumbles.”

“She doesn’t look like a head,” I mutter.

“She looks like leverage.”

I don’t correct him.

But when I look at her again, sitting in that glass cage like it’s a place of meditation instead of containment, leverage doesn’t feel like the right word.

She lifts her chin slightly.

Not in defiance.

In awareness.

Like she knows I’m watching.

And somehow, that feels worse than if she hated me.