“Liar.”
The word hangs between us. She’s right, of course. Phoenix is just a system. The fear runs deeper—fear of failure, of loss, of not being enough when it counts.
“Everyone’s afraid of something,” she continues. “I’m afraid of dying before I finish my research. Of never understanding the full pattern. Of being silenced before I can share what I’ve learned.”
“You’re afraid of being quiet.”
She laughs—soft, surprised. “Yes. I suppose I am. Silence feels like surrender.”
“Sometimes silence is survival.”
“Is that what you tell yourself? When you don’t talk about whatever haunts you?”
Too fucking perceptive.
“We’re not talking about me.”
“Why not? We have five hours to kill.”
“Because my history won’t keep you alive.”
“But it might help me understand you. And since my life is literally in your hands, I’d like to know more than your name and former employer.”
She has a point. But talking about Syria, about failures and ghosts and the weight of command decisions—that’s not happening. Not with her. Not with anyone.
“Ask something else.”
She considers, still pressed against my side for warmth. “Why protection work? You could do anything with your skill set. Private military, corporate security, consulting. Why choose to protect people?”
The honest answer is complicated. Protection is penance. Keeping others alive because I couldn’t keep my team alive. But that’s too much truth for a tunnel conversation with a stranger.
“It’s straightforward. Clear objectives. Keep the client alive.”
“That’s it? No deeper meaning?”
“Sometimes a job is just a job.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Doesn’t matter what you believe.”
She makes that sound again—frustration mixed with something else. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“Match made in heaven then.”
The words hang in the air, and she immediately tenses. “I didn’t mean—that came out wrong—I just meant we’re obviously incompatible, not that we’re matched, and definitely not?—”
“Dr. Wren.”
“Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
“Right. Okay. Stopping now.”
She lasts maybe ninety seconds.
