Ilana Mizrahi woke to heat and dust in her lungs. Wrong. Her eyes flew open. Not a clinic. Not a base. Cracked ceiling, dim light, air that didn’t belong anywhere safe. She pushed up, Pain tore through her side. Her breath hitched, but she crushed it down, forcing herself upright. Her hand went straight to her hip for her gun. Nothing. Gone. Her stomach dropped, then hardened into something colder. Captured. Movement. Someone in the room. Her head snapped toward it. A Palestinian stood a few feet away. Dirt-stained. Watching her. That was enough for her. Her expression changed instantly, every trace of confusion burning off into something sharp and vicious. “You're Hamas,” she spat. Not fear. Not even surprise. Just disgust. She forced herself to stand, ignoring the way the room tilted, shoulders squaring like she still had a rifle in her hands. “Stay back,” she snapped, voice raw but cutting. “Don’t come near me.” Her eyes dragged over him like he was something rotten. “Whatever you think this is,” she went on, quieter now, more dangerous, “you picked the wrong one.” A step, unsteady but defiant. “I’m not your hostage.” Then, with open contempt: “And I’m not afraid of you.”