“Back up,” I say quietly.
He does.
Barely.
We stare at each other, breathing hard, the city roaring around us, the waterfall café hissing behind glass like a private joke.
“I’m gathering more information before I act,” I say. “Because I’m not reckless. But I am not going to be herded into isolation because you’re afraid of syndicate politics.”
“I am afraid of you getting killed,” he snaps.
“Get in line.”
He closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, something in him has shifted.
“I don’t trust her,” he says.
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t trust this.”
“Neither do I.”
Tur growls.
“Fine,” he says. “We gather more information.”
My desire doesn’t dissipate with his deep throated growl.
It coils tighter.
CHAPTER 10
TUR
The Fierson Grill looks smaller at night.
Not physically smaller, not in any way that would show up on a map or a structural scan, but spiritually reduced, like something once loud and warm and human has been stripped down to a carcass and left under open sky for the city to pick at. The storefront is a hollow rectangle of darkness rimmed with fractured glass, its shattered windows crunching softly under my boots as I step over the threshold and into what used to be a kitchen that smelled like cumin and hot oil and laughter.
Now it smells like char.
Like chemical suppressant.
Like old smoke soaked so deep into concrete that no amount of scrubbing will ever pull it all the way out.
My breath fogs faintly in the cooler night air pooling inside the ruin, and every sound I make feels too loud, amplified by the skeletal acoustics of collapsed beams and warped steel. The city hums outside in distant layers—traffic, sirens, voices, the low electric thrum of Novaria never quite sleeping—but in here there’s only the whisper of settling ash and the soft grit of debris shifting under my weight.
I move slowly.
Not because I’m afraid of traps.
Because I’m afraid of what I’m going to feel.
The prep line is gone.
The flat-top is a twisted, blackened slab that looks like someone tried to fold it in half with a hydraulic press. The spice rack along the back wall has collapsed into a colorful smear of burned powders and broken glass, the air still faintly sweet with scorched paprika and cinnamon under the heavier stink of melted wiring.
