His expression doesn’t change, but the air in the cell shifts. Colder. More dangerous.
“You’re in no position to negotiate.”
“You need this intelligence,” I counter. “Vex is operating under your nose. How many of your people have gone missing in the last year? How many disappearances you couldn’t explain?”
His jaw tightens fractionally. I’ve hit something true.
“The Council decides sanctuary,” he says. “Not me.”
“Then take this to the Council. Tell them I have everything they need. Location. Security protocols. Timeline. But the deal requires a guarantee of protection. And this is time-sensitive. There are lives on the line.”
“Lives?” His eyes narrow. I nod. “And you would risk them for your own safety?”
“Not if I can help it,” I tell him. “But right now, it’s the only leverage I have. I’m here in good faith, Parlance. But I can’t risk having you lock me in here for months—years, maybe— while you deliberate over it.”
There’s a long silence. Viktor weighing options. Weighing whether I’m lying, whether the intel justifies the risk.
Finally: “This documentation. Where is it?”
“Retrievable once terms are agreed.”
“If you’re lying—”
“I’m not.”
He studies me. Then shifts topics without warning. “What happened out there? Between you and Frost?”
The question catches me off guard. Not the intelligence. Not verification. Personal.
“We survived,” I say. Carefully neutral.
“She resigned from Aurora three days ago.” His voice stays flat. Clinical. “Walked out of a Council meeting, furious that we’d grant you sanctuary. Said she was done. Then she went into those mountains to kill you.”
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say that won’t make this worse.
“She came back with you alive,” Viktor continues. “Clearly compromised. So I’ll ask again: what happened?”
“Syndicate ambushed the convoy. She fought them. Saved me. A storm trapped us. We survived together.”
“That’s the tactical summary. What else?”
I meet his eyes. “You walked in on what else.”
His expression hardens. “She wanted you dead. Now she can barely watch you being detained without—” He stops. Reconsiders. “You’ve compromised one of my best operatives.”
“She’d already resigned,” I point out. “She wasn’t your operative when we met.”
“That’s semantics, and you know it.”
Fair enough.
“What happened wasn’t tactical,” I say finally. “It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.”
“Aurora and Syndicate don’t mate.”
The blunt statement sits between us.
“No,” I agree. “They don’t.”
