I am not retreating.
Emotionally or strategically.
Tur is in the kitchen, shirtless, his injured shoulder taped and ugly-purple under the compression seal, one hand braced on the counter while he stares at a wall display full of transit maps and syndicate overlays like he’s trying to commit the entire city to memory in case it disappears while he blinks.
He doesn’t turn when he hears me.
“You’re up,” he says.
“Mm-hmm.”
“You should sleep more.”
“I should overthrow the Nine and reclaim my restaurant,” I reply, my voice still rough. “We don’t always get what we should.”
He exhales quietly.
I pad into the kitchen barefoot and steal his mug of coffee without asking.
He doesn’t object.
Progress.
“I’m meeting Lenara Vox again,” I say.
He goes very still.
“No,” he says flatly.
“Not a question.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“This is a controlled idea,” I counter. “With witnesses. And security. And no ambush-friendly alleys.”
“You are trusting a syndicate broker.”
“I am using a syndicate broker.”
His jaw tightens.
“They always extract payment.”
“So do you,” I snap. “You just pretend it’s called protection.”
He winces.
Fair.
“I’m not asking permission,” I continue. “I’m telling you the plan.”
Silence stretches.
Dense.
Electric.
“Where,” he finally asks.
