She swallows. Her hands curl into fists at her sides.
I could press. Could snap this thing open right here and force the truth out of her. But I don’t.
Because something in her—maybe the grit, maybe the stubborn refusal to admit fear—says she’s not here to betray me.
She’s here trying not to die.
And I understand that kind of mission better than most.
I reach for the weapon and holster it again, turning my back on her fully. A risk.
But a message too.
“I’ll handle weapons training tomorrow,” I say casually. “For now, don’t touch anything you can’t name.”
She nods, once, fast.
I glance over my shoulder. “You hungry?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Food. You do eat, right?”
“Yeah. Just… wasn’t expecting dinner.”
“Expect the unexpected. Unless it’s poison. Then expect indigestion.”
She snorts. “Wow. Inspirational.”
I walk to the galley and start up the heating unit. Nothing fancy—reheat trays and pre-cooked synth protein. But it smells halfway decent once the spices kick in. She lingers near the doorway like she’s still not sure she’s allowed to be here.
“You can sit,” I say without looking at her.
She does.
Her movements are too careful, like she’s waiting for a tripwire.
I hand her a bowl, and we eat in silence for a while. It’s not awkward. It’s tactical. We’re both gathering data, whether we admit it or not.
Finally, she speaks.
“Why’d you pick me?”
I chew, swallow. “Didn’t pick you. Found you.”
“Still.”
I consider her question. “Because you walked up to me in a bar full of predators and slapped me.”
She smirks. “That’s the bar now? Assault equals job offer?”
“It was the eyes.”
She blinks. “What about them?”
“They didn’t look away.”
She doesn’t reply. But her smile fades.
