I nod. “Yeah. You and your think tank in there.”
She looks away, embarrassed. I let her.
But I don’t look away.
I watch her—every move, every breath—like she’s a puzzle I’ve already solved but still want to keep studying. Because beneath all that chatter she usually uses to hide, she just gave me the clearest truth yet.
Next time, she won’t just survive me. She’ll surrender fully.
We don’t talk much while we eat.
She picks at the eggs. Nibbles the toast. Sips the coffee like it might burn her if she swallows too fast.
I eat in silence, watching her.
Not staring. Not intimidating.
Just—tracking.
Every flick of her eyes. Every twitch of her fingers. Every time she glances at the flash drive sitting between us like a loaded gun.
The room’s quiet, but not empty.
It hums.
With everything we haven’t said. Everything we already know.
She doesn’t try to fill the space. Doesn’t rush to explain or deflect or minimize.
She just is—the woman who let me break her open, then came back for breakfast.
When her plate’s half-finished, she sets her fork down and looks at me.
Not nervously.
Not defiantly.
Just—straight on.
“I want to look at it,” she says.
I don’t need to ask what she means. Her gaze flicks to the drive.
“I need to see what I was carrying. What’s on it. Why Phoenix wants me dead.”
I nod once. No questions. Nohesitation.
“You need space for that?”
She hesitates.
Then nods.
“Yeah.”
I lean back in the chair. Stretch one arm across the back. Let her feel the absence of pressure.
“Take it,” I say.
