The forest screamed. Trees bent like supplicants under the gale of your transformation, leaves combusting into emerald ash before they hit the ground. Your claws—now obsidian scythes—dug furrows into the earth as you convulsed, the dragon's pulse thundering in your skull like a war drum. Neytiri lunged backward, her braids singed at the tips where your breath had grazed them. "Y/N!" she shouted, but her voice was swallowed by the roar of your blood.

Jake's wheelchair skidded on the mud-slick ground, his human hands useless against the torrent of debris. "Grace—!"

"I see it!" Grace snarled, yanking Norm behind a shattered supply crate. Her eyes locked onto you, wide with clinical horror. "Adrenaline spike—off the charts! Their neural load is gonna fry the link!"

But there was no "link" anymore. No separation. The dragon didn't pilot—it consumed.

Quaritch's laugh cut through the din, jagged and familiar. "Hell of a party trick, kid!" He emerged from the smoke, rifle slung casually over his shoulder, a phosphorous flare gun gleaming in his other hand. "Let's see if we can't turn up the heat."

The flare struck your spine with a sickening crack, white-hot agony spiderwebbing through your nervous system. You arched, wings—now vast enough to eclipse the sun—exploding outward. A cargo loader crumpled like foil, its hull screeching as your wingtip sheared through it.

"That's it," Quaritch goaded, reloading. "Show me what that overgrown lizard's worth!"

The world dissolved into hues of infrared. His heartbeat glowed in your vision, a frantic, delicious rhythm. You lunged, jaws gaping, molten saliva dripping onto his boots. He didn't flinch. "C'mon," he hissed. "Prove me right."

A claw swiped—then froze, trembling, a hair's breadth from his throat.

Neytiri's scent.

It pierced the haze: ash and arrowroot, the musk of fear. You turned, smoke curling from your nostrils. She stood exposed, arms spread, her bow discarded. "Ma Y/N," she whispered. "See me."

Your breath hitched. The dragon recoiled, confused.

Quaritch seized the opening. The second flare struck your chest.

Fire erupted.

The blast flung Neytiri into the mud, Jake's shout swallowed by the inferno. Quaritch staggered back, face blistered, but still grinning. "Attaboy!"

You didn't feel the bullets. Didn't feel the humans' screams. Only the pull—the sweet, seductive call of total surrender.

Then, a hand on your claw.

Small. Warm.

"Enough," Neytiri said, her palm pressed to your scaled flesh. Blood seeped from her temple, but her gaze held you, anchor-deep. "You are not his. You are mine."

The dragon stilled.

Quaritch's rifle clattered. "Oh, this is rich—"

Your tail snapped out, crushing the weapon—and his femur—in one blow. He collapsed, howling, as you loomed over him, embers dripping onto his chest.

"Y/N." Neytiri's voice, steel wrapped in velvet. "He is not worth your fire."

The compound lay in ruins. Humans fled. The forest wept. But here, now, there was only her—the tremble in her touch, the quiet command.

You exhaled. The flames died.

Quaritch's laugh bubbled wetly. "Should've... finished me."

Neytiri stepped between you, her tail lashing. "No," she said, sharp as a blade. "He is better than you."

As the rain doused the last of the flames, you felt it—the dragon's retreat, the slow, searing pain of scales dissolving back into flesh. You crumpled, Neytiri's arms catching you, her breath warm against your ear.

"I see you," she murmured.

And for the first time, you believed it.

Jake's hands were trembling—a detail you'd never noticed before. His wheelchair left twin tracks in the mud as he rolled toward you, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, his human face pale against the smoldering wreckage of the compound. When he reached you, his fingers cradled your jaw with a gentness that belied the callouses from decades of combat. His thumbs brushed the lingering scales along your cheekbones, still warm from the dragon's retreat.

"Oh, you're alright," he breathed, voice cracking. It wasn't a statement. It was a prayer.

He hauled you into his lap with a grunt, your limbs awkward and heavy, your wings reduced to phantom aches along your shoulder blades. The wheelchair creaked under the weight, but Jake didn't seem to care. His arms locked around you, his heartbeat a frantic staccato against your ear. You could smell the antiseptic on his shirt, the stale coffee, the metallic tang of fear. Human scents. Fragile scents.

"Jake," you croaked, your throat raw as charred wood. "I'm... I'm crushing you—"

"Shut up," he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath hitched. "Just... shut up, kid."

Behind him, Neytiri stood motionless, her silhouette etched against the burning forest. Rain slid down the curve of her bow, still clutched in her hand, the poison-tipped arrow now sheathed. Her eyes glowed in the gloom, unreadable, but her tail lashed once—a sharp, staccato flick—before she turned abruptly and melted into the trees. The absence of her gaze left a chill deeper than the storm.

Grace and Norm hovered nearby, their lab coats streaked with ash. Grace's tablet buzzed with frantic biometric alerts, but she ignored it, her stare locked on the scorch marks radiating from your body. "Jake," she said quietly, "we need to get them inside. Now."

"In a minute," Jake snapped, his grip tightening.

Quaritch's laughter cut through the chaos, wet and mangled from where he lay pinned under a collapsed scaffold. "Real touching, Sully," he spat, blood frothing at his lips. "But that thing's a time bomb. You're cuddling with extinction."

Jake's head whipped toward him, his eyes blazing. Before he could speak, you stirred, lifting a hand—still claw-tipped, still smoldering—and pointed at Quaritch. A low growl built in your chest, the ground trembling faintly.

"Don't," Jake said, firm but quiet, his palm flattening over your heart. "He's not worth it. You're worth it."

The fight drained out of you, leaving only exhaustion. Your claws retracted, the scales fading to faint traceries of gold under your skin. Jake exhaled shakily, his lips brushing your temple—a gesture so loving it hollowed your chest.

"Grace," he said, not looking away from you, "get the medbay ready. And someone muzzle that bastard before I do it myself."

As Norm hurried to Quaritch, Grace hesitated, her gaze lingering on the place where Neytiri had vanished. "Jake... she's out there. Alone."

"She'll be back," Jake said, but his voice lacked conviction.

You closed your eyes, the world narrowing to the rhythm of Jake's pulse, the distant scream of a banshee echoing the ache in your bones. Somewhere, in the scorched earth and the bloodied rain, a truth lingered: the dragon had been seen.

And nothing would ever be the same.