We come in hot.

Dust kicks up in sheets when the gunship settles, rotors chopping the air into something violent and metallic. I jump down first, rifle slung low, boots hitting dirt that used to be forest. Quaritch is right behind me.

He’s got her by the arm.

At first I think she’s just another capture. Smaller than the warriors. No visible weapons. Pale purple skin against the green. White hair tangled from the ride.

She’s not fighting.

That’s what I notice first.

No thrashing. No biting. No screaming.

Just rigid.

Quaritch marches her forward like she weighs nothing. “Keep it clear,” he barks.

I move ahead, swipe the access panel. The containment unit hums to life. Clear reinforced glass, sealed floor, overhead lighting bright enough to bleach color out of anything organic.

He shoves her in.

Not gentle.

She stumbles forward, catching herself awkwardly on hands and knees before the door seals with a hydraulic hiss.

I glance at Quaritch. “Boss… what is this?”

He folds his arms, studying her through the glass. “Ain’t no way this girl ain’t special. Look at her eyes.”

That’s when I really look.

They’re open.

But they don’t track.

Milky white. No irises. No focus.

She’s not staring at us.

She’s not staring at anything.

She pushes herself upright slowly, one hand sliding along the floor like she’s mapping it. Her head tilts—not toward the glass—but toward the hum of the generator.

And then it hits me.

“Sir,” I say carefully, “she blind?”

Quaritch doesn’t answer at first. He steps closer to the glass. She flinches—not at his movement—but at the sound of his boots on metal.

He smirks. “Special’s special.”

I feel something cold slide down my spine.

“Did we just take a blind woman?”

He shoots me a look. “You got a problem, Corporal?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know how to phrase what just twisted in my gut.

I’ve burned trees.

I’ve shot Na’vi.

I’ve followed orders that left smoke hanging over miles of land.

But this?

She doesn’t even know where the walls are.

The lights buzz overhead, harsh and constant. No wind. No shifting air. Just recycled atmosphere and steel.

She takes two tentative steps forward and hits the glass with her palm. Not hard. Just enough to test.

Her breath quickens.

She turns, moving in the opposite direction. Another few steps.

Glass again.

Her fingers spread against it like she’s trying to feel past it.

There’s nothing to feel.

No breeze. No tide. No ground variation.

Just flat metal and vibration.

She stops moving.

Slowly, she lowers herself into the corner, back to the seam where two walls meet. Knees drawn in. Hands gripping her own arms.

Not crying.

Not begging.

Just… still.

Like she’s conserving energy.

Or trying to make the buzzing smaller by shrinking herself.

The generator hum fills the room. It’s constant. Mechanical. Wrong.

She tilts her head slightly, listening.

Mapping.

Trying to understand a space that offers no cues.

I swallow.

“This ain’t tactical,” I mutter under my breath.

Quaritch doesn’t look at me. “It’s leverage.”

“She can’t even see.”

“Doesn’t mean she ain’t important.”

She shifts again in the corner. One hand presses flat against the floor. Testing vibration. Her breathing is controlled, but shallow.

She doesn’t scream.

She doesn’t pound the glass.

She just sits there.

Frazzled.

Disoriented.

Because she can’t feel wind.

Can’t feel open air.

Can’t feel the world the way she’s built to.

And something about that crawls under my skin.

I step closer to the containment unit.

Her head turns immediately.

Not toward my face.

Toward my breathing.

Like she can hear the difference between me and him.

She still doesn’t know where the walls are.

But she knows I moved.

I don’t know why that unsettles me more than anything else today.

I’ve done ugly things.

I’ve justified worse.

But watching a blind lady sit in a glass box because we think she might be useful—

That feels different.

Quaritch claps a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t get soft on me, Wainfleet.”

I keep my eyes on her.

“I ain’t soft, sir.”