“Does that usually work?” she asks.
“Does what work?”
“This little routine,” she says calmly. “Trying to scare people into believing you’re broken beyond repair.”
The words hit harder than I expect, and I sit back slightly, jaw tightening. She’s not smiling. She’s not smug. She’s just… still.
“You think you know me,” I say, low and cold.
“I think you work very hard to make sure no one does.”
I let out a short breath, more scoff than laugh. “You think you’re clever.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “Just observant.”
I stand, the chair scraping back against the floor like it wants to scream. Her gaze follows me without flinching, even when I step in close. Close enough to see the tiny freckles along her cheekbone, close enough to feel her breath.
“You wanna know what I see when I look at you?” I say, voice sharp now, teeth bared. “I see someone playing dress-up. You think walking into a room full of monsters makes you strong? It just makes you stupid.”
Still no flinch. Just that same maddening calm.
“Rage,” she says, “is a clever disguise. But it doesn’t fool me. It never lasts long enough to be real.”
I step back, heart thudding too hard, too fast. I shouldn’t care what she thinks. Shouldn’t care how her words land, or whether she sees through me.
But I do.
And that makes me dangerous to her, and to myself.
“I’m done here,” I say, turning toward the door.
“You always leave when it gets uncomfortable?”
I don’t look back. Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing the pause in my step.
“I leave,” I say, hand already on the handle, “because the longer I stay, the harder it gets to pretend you’re not getting under my skin.”
I slam the door behind me hard enough to rattle the frame, then stalk down the hallway, boots echoing off concrete like a war drum in a crypt. The guard by the exit raises his head, but one look at my face sends him back into his chair like he’s never seen me.
I keep walking.
Out into the alley, the stench of piss and gasoline hitting like a slap. I light a cigarette with shaking fingers and curse the way my hands won’t go still. The nicotine doesn’t help. Nothing ever does.
Her voice follows me, echoing in the back of my mind like a damn ghost. That tone she uses when she says things nobody else has the guts to say to my face. The way she talks like she’s not afraid of the worst parts of me. Like she’s met worse and walked away whole.
I’ve killed people for less than that kind of arrogance.
But I can’t stop thinking about her.
The way her eyes never blink when I snarl. The way she leans in instead of pulling away.
I toss the cigarette into a puddle and head down the block, past shuttered windows and sleeping dogs and the scent of old wine spilled on cobblestones. The city’s still alive, still loud in its corners, but I’m not looking for a fight tonight.
I just need to move.
I end up back at the hideout an hour later, the warehouse quiet except for the distant thrum of a generator and the sound of a punching bag taking a beating somewhere in the back.
I push open the side door and find Esteban in the corner, taping his wrists, eyes narrowed like he’s already been warned I’m in a mood.
