He adjusts altitude, bringing us lower.
“Choice.”
The word steals the air from my lungs.
Choice.
No one offered that during training. No one offered that during assignments. No one offered that during negotiation with the Americans.
Choice implies autonomy. Choice implies alignment.
“You don’t know what I’ll choose,” I say.
“I don’t,” he agrees.
“But I’d rather stand next to you when you do.”
The city rushes closer beneath us. Buildings rise. Traffic threads. The world resumes. Something inside my carefully constructed defenses shifts. Not because he seduced me.
Not because he pressed. Because he saw. And still came back.
“You’re making this personal,” I say.
“It already is.”
The helicopter begins its descent toward a discreet rooftop landing pad several blocks from the gala venue.
My mission waits below. The handoff. The confirmation.
The leverage.
And now … him.
“You understand,” I say carefully, “that once we land, this doesn’t stay contained.”
“I understand.”
“They will escalate.”
“I expect them to.”
“And if I’m not what you think I am?”
He meets my eyes fully this time.
Then answers without hesitation.
“Then I adjust.”
The confidence in that should alarm me. Instead, it steadies me.
The skids hover just above the rooftop. Wind whips against metal and fabric. We are seconds from reinsertion.
For the first time since I agreed to this operation, I don’t feel alone. And that may be the most dangerous variable of all.
The rooftop rushes up beneath us.
Wind lashes across the skids as Hawk steadies the descent. The city roars below — distant sirens, traffic, morning noise folding into itself.
