He whirls. “That’s not a way out. That’s a muzzle. They want us to sign a paper saying we’ll never speak again in exchange for breathing.”
“It’s a chance to live.”
“It’s a lie.”
We stare at each other across the half-lit space, years of different wars hanging between us.
“You’d take it?” he asks, voice low.
“I’d consider it.”
His jaw clenches. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired,” I say. “Because I’ve run every road and fought every fight and I still wake up with blood in my mouth. I want something else.”
“So do I,” he shoots back. “But not like this. Not by letting them win.”
“Roja, look at the streets,” I say, gesturing to the window where the faint roar of the city still drifts in. “Look at the news. They aren't offering this because they’re nice. They’re offering it because they’re terrified. You went public. You put your face on the truth. They can’t kill us now without turning us into martyrs.”
He stops pacing. The muscle in his jaw jumps.
“They’re scared,” I press. “That means we did something right. But if we push too hard, fear turns into desperation. And desperate people just bomb the whole building.”
He picks up the pad, holds it like a threat. “You really want to vanish? Just like that?”
“I want to survive.”
“So that’s it? You survive and forget? Let them off the hook just because they’re terrified of the riots we started?”
“I want to wake up without wondering who’s coming to kill me.”
“I want them to regret ever letting us breathe.”
We’re shouting now. Voices ricocheting off rusted walls, the tension unraveling fast.
“They already regret it!” I yell. “You saw the feeds! Vasso is dead because of us! We won, Roja. Taking the deal isn't losing. It’s collecting the prize.”
“It’s not enough!”
“It has to be!”
I don’t realize I’m crying until my voice breaks. Roja freezes. The silence after is thick and terrible. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my jacket, breathing hard.
Roja steps forward, slower now. “Kelsea…”
“I want to build something, Roja,” I whisper. “Not just tear it all down. Don’t you?”
He doesn’t answer.
So I say, “They’re offering us immunity. If we’re smart, we take it. But we do it on our terms.”
“And if we’re right, we don’t,” he says. “We finish what we started.”
And just like that, we’re back in it. The same fight. The same divide. Morning light creeps through the cracks in the warehouse wall, painting the dust gold. He stands across from me, all fire and defiance. And me—I’m just tired.
But I don’t walk away.
Eventually, though, I’m the one who says yes. It doesn’t come fast. It comes after the fight drains out of us and we’re left just sitting there—me cross-legged on the concrete with my spine aching and knees numb, Roja crouched against the far wall like a spring-loaded trap.
