“Yes.”
“You let me believe?—”
“Yes.”
“You watched?—”
“Yes.”
The admissions come easily. Freely. That’s what terrifies me.
“And now,” I say, “you expect me to believe you’re telling the truth.”
Valentine’s gaze holds mine, unwavering. “No,” he says. “I expect you to recognise consistency.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose. “You think this was mercy,” I say.
He nods once. “I do.”
I laugh then. Not sharply. Not hysterically. Just a soft, disbelieving sound that scrapes on the way out.
“You tore my life open,” I say.
“No,” Valentine corrects. “I showed you the seams.”
I still again. Because he’s right. Not about the morality. Not about the justification. But about thefeeling.
Nothing he’s said feels new. It feels like something I’ve been circling for years without language. The sense that my life has always been slightly misaligned, like furniture bolted to the floor at angles that don’t quite make sense until you realise the room wasn’t meant to be comfortable.
“You’re not done with us,” I say.
Valentine doesn’t deny it. “No,” he says. “But nor are you finished with us.”
Honey’s breath hitches once. Just once.
“That wasn’t your choice,” he says, finally.
Valentine turns his attention to him. “No,” he agrees. “It was not.”
The honesty is surgical.
Valentine checks his watch. The gesture is mundane. Infuriating.
“I will not stay,” he says. “You have what you need for now.”
I lift my chin. “And if I don’t care about answers and revenge and meeting the Director?”
Valentine meets my gaze, calm as ever.
“Then you will spend the rest of your life reacting to something you never fully understood,” he says. “That would be a waste of you and everything you have the potential to become.”
He steps toward the door.
Hatchet shifts, blocking the path just enough to make a point. Valentine stops, unbothered.
“Will you hurt her again?” Ghost asks.
Valentine considers the question seriously. I’ll give him that.
