Then says, “You are not trained. You are not equipped. You are not physically capable of surviving an engagement with syndicate enforcers.”
“I am not asking to go fistfight the mob in an alley,” I snap. “I am asking to be treated like a stakeholder in my own survival instead of a fragile artifact you’re trying to move into climate-controlled storage.”
His eyes darken.
“Stakeholders die.”
“So do people who run,” I say. “They just do it quietly and alone and off-camera.”
“You don’t understand what you’re asking for,” he says.
“Then explain it,” I challenge. “Because right now all I’m hearing is ‘be small and quiet and let the men with guns and monster biology handle it.’”
Something dangerous coils behind his eyes.
“You want to be trained,” he says flatly.
“Yes.”
“You want me to teach you how to survive in a war zone.”
“Yes.”
“You want me to put a weapon in your hands and show you how to use it on other human beings.”
“Yes,” I repeat. “Because pretending violence isn’t coming for me does not make me morally superior, it just makes me unprepared.”
He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“Your casualty probability goes up exponentially if you stay.”
“So does my self-respect if I don’t run,” I shoot back. “And I’m going to need that when I’m rebuilding my life out of ashes and debt and trauma.”
Silence stretches again.
Electric.
Volatile.
“This is a terrible idea,” he says finally.
“I am full of those lately,” I reply.
“You will get hurt.”
“I am already hurt,” I say. “That ship sailed when your jalshagar decided I was emotionally stabilizing.”
His jaw tightens hard at that.
“Don’t use that word like a weapon.”
“Then don’t use it like a leash,” I fire back.
Another long, awful beat.
“I will not hide,” I say quietly. “And I will not be moved like freight. If you’re in this with me at all, then you are in it with me as a person, not a liability profile.”
His hands curl into fists.
