He keeps walking.
“Vrok.”
Still nothing.
I lengthen my stride and move ahead of him, forcing him to either stop or run me down. He stops. His gaze drops to me slowly, not surprised, not angry—just guarded.
“What was what?” he asks.
The casual tone makes my stomach flare hot.
“You knew they were going to confront you,” I say. “You felt it building. I saw it in your posture before they even stepped out. And you didn’t defuse it. You leaned into it.”
His brow ridge lowers a fraction. “I didn’t escalate.”
“You absolutely did.”
His jaw flexes.
“You didn’t try to calm it. You didn’t redirect. You didn’t pay the stupid toll and move on. You waited for them to make the first move so you could justify finishing it.”
The words hang between us like a blade.
His voice drops. “That’s called survival.”
“That’s called bait.”
The corridor suddenly feels too narrow. Too close. The ship hum deepens as if it senses tension and wants nothing to do with it.
He steps toward me, and I feel the heat radiating off him before he even speaks.
“You think this is optional?” he asks. “You think there’s a version of this life where people with guns just let you walk away because you asked nicely?”
“I think there’s a version where you don’t make it worse on purpose.”
His eyes flash.
“I didn’t make it worse,” he snaps. “You did.”
That hits harder than I expect.
I inhale slowly, forcing my spine straight. “You were ready for blood. I saw it.”
“You saw readiness.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer so he can’t misinterpret me. “I saw anticipation.”
Silence stretches, thick and electric.
His breathing deepens, not ragged, not unstable, just controlled in a way that makes it worse. His control always makes it worse.
“You want the truth?” he asks finally.
“Yes.”
His gaze drifts past me, unfocusing slightly, like he’s looking through the corridor walls at something far older.
“Horus IV,” he says.
