The air is damp and heavy with the smell of metal and chemicals. Your wrists ache — restrained. Cold restraints. RDA tech.

When your eyes adjust, you see him.

A tall Na’vi figure stands in front of you — blue skin, stripped markings, a body built for war. But his posture isn’t Na’vi. Too rigid. Too controlled.

Yellow eyes study you slowly, like you’re equipment being inspected.

He exhales through his nose, almost amused.

“So,” he says calmly, “you’re Jake Sully’s daughter.”

He takes one slow step closer. Too close.

“You have any idea how much trouble your old man’s caused me?”