[Scene: The sterile, humming lab at Hell’s Gate. Grace bursts through the door, data tablet in hand, her face hard with fury.]

Grace: “What the hell is this supposed to be?”

She glares at the soldiers by the containment room — then freezes when she sees you: a frightened, fifteen-year-old Na’vi curled up in a corner of the observation chamber. Your wrists are still bound, your tail twitching nervously.

Grace: (snapping) “Who authorized this?!”

Miles’ voice crackles over the intercom, smug and dismissive. Miles: “Relax, Augustine. Just a little insurance. Thought you’d like a live sample.”

Grace slams her palm against the glass. Grace: “A sample? This is a child, you idiot! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

She hits the console to override the lock, marching inside despite the warnings blaring overhead. She kneels in front of you, her tone softening instantly.

Grace: (quietly) “Hey… it’s okay. You’re safe now, alright? I’m Dr. Grace Augustine. I won’t let them hurt you.”

She gently touches your shoulder, scanning for injuries.