Silence stretches.
Then she laughs softly.
“Good,” she says. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I don’t like that answer.
We talk for another twenty minutes.
She gives me just enough to be useful and not enough to be safe: syndicate realignment rumors, a possible secondary Glimner power broker trying to muscle in, a quiet Alliance zoning review scheduled for the district my restaurant used to sit in.
I give her nothing she can’t already verify.
When I stand to leave, she inclines her head again.
“You’re going to be a problem,” she says, not unkindly.
“I already am,” I reply.
Outside, the air feels dirtier and louder and more real.
Tur materializes beside me like he’s been waiting for gravity to release him.
“What did she want,” he asks tightly.
“Information,” I say. “And future leverage.”
His jaw locks.
“Syndicate games always extract payment,” he says. “Always.”
“Hiding behind your paranoia won’t save us either,” I snap.
We stop walking.
The argument detonates in the middle of the sidewalk like a flashbang.
“She’s playing you,” he says.
“She’s playing everyone,” I fire back. “That doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”
“You don’t make deals with people like that.”
“You don’t get veto power over my alliances.”
“You are not equipped to survive this layer of conflict.”
“And you are not equipped to control my life,” I shoot back.
He steps too close without realizing it.
I don’t step back.
The air between us goes tight and electric and loud enough to feel in my teeth.
His pupils blow wide.
“Kimberly,” he says, and his voice does something dangerous on my name.
