“Yes.”
No hesitation. No qualifiers.
“And if it doesn’t?” he asks.
“Then we adapt,” she says. “Same as always.”
There’s no bravado in it. Just competence. The kind that comes from having thought through every ugly angle and deciding to move anyway.
I realise, distantly, that I believe her. Completely. Not because she’s right about everything, but because she’s never lied about the cost.
Hatchet closes the pad and sets it aside again. End of discussion.
For a few seconds, the room settles into a strange equilibrium. No raised voices. No tension pulling us sideways. Just alignment.
This is the moment that feels dangerous.
Not because anything’s wrong – but because nothing is.
I let the quiet sit for a few seconds longer than it needs to.
“Say it works,” I begin. Hatchet is already reaching for the pad again.
Kayla looks up. Ghost stills. Hatchet’s attention snaps to me fully, sharp and focused, like I’ve just stepped out of formation.
“Say we go back,” I continue, keeping my voice even, practical. “Say we finish Seytan. The asylum. The Director. All of it.”
I don’t rush it. This isn’t a challenge. It’s an accounting exercise.
“We don’t get pardons,” I say. “We don’t get our names back. Our faces are everywhere. Court records, footage, articles that never get taken down.”
Kayla doesn’t interrupt. She’s listening properly now.
“We’re convicted killers,” I add. “Globally. There’s no country we walk into where that isn’t true.”
Hatchet’s pen moves, fast and quiet, but he doesn’t turn the pad yet. He already knows where I’m going.
“So what happens after?” I ask. “Not tomorrow. Not the next move. After.”
I spread one hand, palm up, like I’m laying out tools on a table.
“How do people like us live?”
The room doesn’t answer straight away.
Ghost exhales slowly, eyes dropping to the carpet. Hatchet stops writing. The pen hovers, then lowers.
Kayla holds my gaze. For a second I think she’s going to give me something reassuring. A direction. A placeholder future we can all pretend toward.
She doesn’t.
That’s when I know I’ve asked the right question.
Kayla doesn’t look away.
That’s the first thing I notice. No deflection. No humour to soften it. Just a steady, unflinching hold, like she’s decided this deserves honesty even if it costs her something.
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she says.
