Quaritch watched her fight with a stillness that surprised even him.

There was no hesitation in her movements, no pause to weigh mercy against necessity. Humans fell fast—efficiently—cut down with a precision that spoke of long memory and older anger. She didn’t rage. She didn’t savor it. She ended it, clean and final, like clearing rot from a living thing.

He felt it then. Not horror. Not guilt.

Relief.

The man he used to be would’ve flinched, even if he never admitted it. Would’ve cataloged losses, calculated fallout, justified it all later. But standing there now, blue hands clenched at his sides, heart beating in a body that didn’t come from Earth—he felt something detach quietly inside him.

Good, he thought grimly. Good that it isn’t me anymore.

Her brutality wasn’t cruelty. It was protection sharpened by experience, by knowing exactly what humans brought with them when they came armed and hungry. Fire. Metal. Erasure. She met it with teeth.

Quaritch exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving her.

For the first time since waking up Na’vi, he didn’t feel caught between worlds.

He felt aligned.

And by God, watching her move, he was more thankful than ever that the thing she was hunting—

was no longer him.