Not with fear.
With adrenaline.
Tur slides into the booth across from me.
“You dismantled him in under ten minutes,” he says quietly.
“I had notes,” I reply.
His mouth curves faintly.
Then his expression shifts.
That professional stillness snapping back into place.
“That wasn’t a bluff,” he says.
“No.”
“They’re going to retaliate.”
“Yes.”
We don’t even finish the sentence before my tablet lights up with alerts.
Explosions.
District Seven.
District Two.
Targeted assassinations.
Infrastructure sabotage.
A substation in Fierson District just went dark.
The city starts screaming.
My chest tightens.
The net tightens with it.
“They’re accelerating,” Tur says flatly.
“They’re trying to flush me out,” I whisper.
“No,” he corrects. “They’re trying to grab you.”
Capture stops being hypothetical.
It becomes scheduled.
I look up at him.
His eyes are dark and lethal and steady.
“They’re not taking me,” I say.
