Quaritch didn’t raise his voice when he read the report.

He didn’t need to.

The wreckage was enough. Burned exosuits. Comms shredded. Tags recovered from the mud like they’d been discarded on purpose. Every recom soldier he’d rebuilt, retrained, re-armed—gone.

Not ambushed.

Hunted.

He crouched near the edge of the blast radius, running a gloved hand over the disturbed earth. No wasted movement. No panic in the execution. Whoever did this knew exactly how recom units operated.

“She studied us,” he muttered, more impressed than angry.

The jungle pressed in close, bioluminescent flora blinking like distant eyes. Pandora always watched. Always listened.

Quaritch rose slowly, jaw tight, something colder than grief settling into place. “You don’t wipe out my unit and walk away,” he said to the trees, to the air, to her.

This wasn’t rage.

Rage was sloppy.

This was personal.

He began mapping patterns in his head—flight paths, supply routes, known Na’vi strongholds. She’d left a signature in the way everything fell apart. Efficient. Surgical. Intentional.

Good.

That meant she’d be predictable in one way.

Pride.

Quaritch adjusted his rifle across his shoulder and started deeper into the jungle, movements quieter than a man his size had any right to be.

He wasn’t charging in blind.

He was tracking.

And somewhere out there, the woman who dismantled his soldiers was about to find out—

Predators don’t take losses lightly.