“Vrok,” louder now.
He stirs. A grunt. One eye cracks open. “What.”
“I’m not the Butcher.”
The words fall like a knife. No build-up. No cushion.
Just the truth, raw and late.
He’s still. Utterly still. Like the air got sucked out of the room.
I press on because I have to.
“I’m not her. I’ve never been her. I’m not an assassin, or a merc, or anything close. I was at the club with a friend. It was a dare. She pointed to the scariest guy in the bar, and I went up to you to prove I wasn’t a coward. I didn’t think you’d… respond. But you did. And then it all got out of hand, and I didn’t know how to stop it without getting myself spaced.”
He doesn’t move.
Not a twitch.
I step back, suddenly cold. My arms wrap around my own ribs.
“I lied. But not because I wanted to screw you over. I panicked. And then it was too late. And now I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I needed you to know.”
I brace for it—rage, violence, betrayal. Something.
He still doesn’t look at me.
He stares at the bulkhead.
Says nothing.
That’s worse.
“Vrok?” I try again.
Finally, he speaks.
“Sit.”
The word is clipped. Empty.
I blink. “What?”
He turns his head, not looking at me—just… past me. Voice low and flat. “Sit. There. Don’t move.”
I sit.
Because I don’t know what else to do.
He breathes deep. Shoulders tense like he’s holding himself in check with effort.
“We’re not turning around,” he says. “You’re on this ship now. And you owe me.”
It’s not a threat.
Not exactly.
But it’s not mercy either.
