I don’t speak right away. I let the silence stretch, let the rhythm of his pacing fill the space between us. Let him come to the idea that I’m not here to pry with prissy little questions and a clipboard full of diagnostic codes.
After two full laps, he finally glances at me. Not a full look. Just enough to register that I’m real and here and watching.
“You always walk in like that?” he asks, voice flat, not angry but already tired of the conversation.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t give a damn what’s on the other side of the door.”
I lean back in the chair, cross one leg over the other, and fold my hands loosely in my lap. “I’ve found most things worth being afraid of don’t knock first.”
That gets something. A twitch at the edge of his mouth. Not quite a smile, not even a smirk. But something.
He keeps pacing. The room is bare except for the two chairs, a dented metal locker, and a sink that leaks just enough to marktime. The walls are the same dull gray as the rest of the pit, but the air feels different in here. Heavier. Thicker.
“Tell me about last night,” I say, gently. Not a command. Just an opening.
“No.”
“Alright,” I say, and I don’t push. “Then tell me about it right now.”
He stops mid-stride, turns toward me slowly. There’s something in his eyes I didn’t see last time. Not wildness. Not fury. This time it’s closer to wariness. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the quiet I bring.
“You really think talking helps?” he asks, tone low, almost thoughtful.
“I think silence helps men convince themselves they’re alone,” I reply. “And I think alone people do dangerous things.”
“I’ve done dangerous things in a crowd,” he says, and he moves again, slow this time, until he’s standing across from me. He doesn’t sit. Just watches.
“I believe that,” I say. “But I don’t think you enjoyed it as much as they say you did.”
He squints at me, like I’ve said something wrong or too right.
“You think you’ve got me figured out already?”
“I think you’re a lion trapped in a bull’s body,” I say, letting the words land without flinching.
His head tilts. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I don’t think rage is your first language. Just the one that gets the most attention.”
He doesn’t respond. He just turns away, walks to the wall, and braces both hands against it like he’s holding it up. The muscles in his back move under his shirt like tectonic plates, tight and flexing.
I stay quiet.
When he speaks again, it’s quieter. Rougher.
“There was a kid,” he says. “At the port. Said something… something I can’t get out of my head.”
I straighten just a little, but I don’t reach for my notebook.
“What did he say?”
“He told me I didn’t want it. The kill. Said it’d stay with me.”
“And did it?”
He lets out a sharp breath, not quite a laugh. “I’ve been carrying bodies since before you knew what a diagnosis code was.”
