He just watches.
“You break into municipal archives without telling me,” he says finally.
“I left you a note,” I reply without looking up. “On the terminal. With bullet points.”
“You left me a post-it that said ‘Doing crimes. Back soon.’”
“Clear communication,” I say. “Love languages vary.”
He steps fully into the room.
“What did you find.”
I hesitate.
Then turn my tablet so he can see the map.
His face goes still.
Not shocked.
Not confused.
Just… deeply, professionally grim.
“Your family’s restaurant was protected,” I say. “Deliberately. For decades. Under pre-Alliance law. By multiple departments. It’s sitting on top of something people with a lot of power don’t want anyone else touching.”
His jaw tightens.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.
“Too late.”
“You’re making yourself more of a target.”
“I already am a target,” I snap. “The difference is now I know why.”
He watches me for a long moment.
Not like prey.
Not like a liability.
Like someone reassessing a chessboard.
“You’re not guessing,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “I’m building counterpressure.”
He exhales slowly.
Something unspoken shifts behind his eyes.
“You’re a strategist,” he says quietly.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I mutter. “I ran a restaurant on Novaria.”
Silence stretches.
