“For you?” he asks mildly. “Or for them?”
I follow his gaze without turning my head. Two women are being escorted down a side corridor, restraints adjusted, posture already shifting as reality sinks in. One is crying openly now, sobs catching on each breath. The other is quiet, face locked down so tight it almost looks like discipline.
“For them,” I say.
He nods once, like that confirms something he already knew. “They always think the worst part is the Hunt.”
“It isn’t?” I ask.
“The Hunt is simple. Motion. Outcome. Rules that don’t pretend to be anything else. It’s just the beginning.”
I wait, because I’m learning that Armen leaves space on purpose. Like silence is part of his power. “And after?” I finally ask when he doesn’t continue.
His eyes settle on me again, steady and unreadable. “After is about usefulness.”
The word lands harder than I expect. Not because it’s cruel but because it’s said like a fact no one’s bothered to dress up. It’s stony, harsh, and ugly.
“Usefulness to whom?” I ask.
Instead of answering, he shifts slightly to the side. Not enough to touch me. Not enough to threaten. Just enough that the corridor behind him is no longer accessible. “That depends,” he says, “on who’s asking. Whether you’re talking about losers or winners.”
“The winners?” I ask.
That gets a pause. Not long. Not dramatic. But real. He studies me like I’ve finally asked something that matters. “What about them?” he asks.
“You tell me,” I say. “Why not?”
“Because explanations create expectations,” he replies. “And expectations make people careless.”
“So you’d rather we stay afraid.”
“I’d rather you stay accurate.”
I shift my weight, my knee flaring in protest before I can stop it. His eyes flick down instantly, then back up. Not concern. Accounting.
“You keep doing that,” he says calmly.
“Doing what?” I ask.
“Testing space you don’t have.”
I look at him. “You going to stop me?”
“I already am.”
The realization settles slowly: this isn’t about restraint. It’s about deciding how much of the world I’m allowed toreach, how much of him I’m allowed to read, how close I can come without being permitted closer.
Casual. Efficient. Cruel in the way systems are cruel.
He looks into the distance. “Most women beg by now,” he adds, like he’s commenting on something inevitable. “They ask how to earn better treatment. They ask how long they’ll be here. They ask what they can give us to make it stop.”
“And what do you tell them?” I ask.
“That begging is information,” he says. “Not currency.”
I swallow, throat suddenly dry. “And the ones who don’t beg?”
His gaze sharpens, just a fraction. “Those are the ones we watch.”
