Silence stretches between us.
The light hums.
The fridge in the corner clicks on with a low mechanical groan and then off again.
“You don’t get to decide what I can handle,” I say, my voice still quiet, still level. “That stopped being your call the moment the Nine firebombed my restaurant and the Alliance started sniffing around my life like I’m a goddamn biohazard.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m deciding what keeps you alive.”
“That is not the same thing,” I snap.
The pulse pistol pieces rattle softly as he grips the edge of the counter.
“There is buried infrastructure under your restaurant,” he says finally. “Old. Reaper-era. Transit architecture.”
My stomach drops.
Not in a surprised way.
In a horrible, confirming way.
“I know,” I say.
His eyes flicker.
“You know.”
“I broke into municipal archives with Ishaan,” I say. “We found zoning shields, permanent tax exemptions, redevelopment vetoes written under pre-Alliance law. Someone has been protecting that address for decades.”
He stares at me.
“You did crimes without telling me,” he says flatly.
“I left you a note.”
“You left me a post-it that said ‘Doing crimes. Back soon.’”
“Again,” I say, “clear communication.”
Something sharp and humorless flashes across his face.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I absolutely should have done that,” I counter. “Because now I know my family didn’t just get unlucky. We were sitting on top of something powerful people don’t want civilians touching.”
He looks away.
Just a fraction of a second too late.
“And you found something else,” I say.
His silence is answer enough.
The heat behind my eyes turns into something molten and dangerous.
“You went down there alone,” I say. “Didn’t you.”
