After that, the energy in the compound changes.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
Guards start arguing in hallways.
Doors slam harder.
Conversations cut off when I’m walked past them.
The bald one stops making eye contact.
The woman with the wrong jacket doesn’t come back.
Two men I’ve never seen before stand outside my cell for an hour and whisper furiously at each other.
Good.
Greed detonates paranoia faster than explosives ever could.
They bring me back into the interrogation room the next morning.
The bald one looks like he hasn’t slept.
“You’re lying about rival syndicates,” he says.
I tilt my head.
“Which ones.”
His jaw tightens.
“Answer the question.”
I smile faintly.
“No.”
He slams his hand against the wall.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done.”
“Yes,” I reply. “I made you a liability.”
His eyes are bloodshot.
“You think your Reaper is coming for you.”
“I know he is.”
He laughs.
It comes out brittle.
“Then you’re already dead.”
I lean back in the chair as far as the restraints allow.
