She straightens despite the restraints. Despite the pain. Despite the fact that I just put my hands on her in a way I promised myself I wouldn’t.
“He believed people should be held accountable,” she says. “Does that scare you?”
I laugh once. Short. Humorless. “Accountability is a luxury,” I say. “Order isn’t built on fairness. It’s built on enforcement.”
“And yet,” she says, “you’re standing here arguing with me instead of walking away.”
“You don’t understand what you’re invoking,” I tell her.
“Then explain it,” she says. “Explain why you sound like someone justifying a fire instead of preventing one.”
“You think the city fell because we failed it,” I say. “It fell because it refused to adapt. Because it clung to structures that benefited a few and crushed the rest. Because it believed restraint was the same thing as mercy.”
She watches me closely now, eyes intent. “And you think what replaced it is better?”
“I think it’s honest,” I say. “I think it doesn’t lie about the cost of survival.”
She considers that. Too calmly. Too intelligently. “And my father?” she asks. “Was he a cost?”
The question is quiet. It still slices. I turn away before I answer. Take three measured steps down the corridor. Put space between us before I do something worse than touch her.
“I have no idea. Nor do I care. Stop using him to goad me,” I say.
“I’m not using him,” she says. “I’m telling you why I won’t shut up.”
I look back at her. “Careful,” I warn.
She meets my eyes. “You first.”
I stop. I don’t turn back. Not because I don’t want to see her. Because I do. “This conversation is over.”
“For now,” she says.
I walk away before she can say anything else. Behind me, I know she’s watching. Not afraid. Not hopeful. Learning.
And the worst part is, I know she’s right about onething. I didn’t grab her wrist because of what she said. I grabbed it because for a second, I saw exactly who she could have been in another version of this city.
And I couldn’t afford to let her finish the thought.
26
VI
With wrists boundbehind my back, the rope’s biting more on the right than the left. My knee has stiffened again, the ache settled deep enough that it doesn’t throb anymore. It’s just there.
Armen stands a few steps away, close enough that I can see the edge of his sleeve when he shifts. He hasn’t said anything to me in a while, which means he’s watching something else.
I don’t ask.
That’s when I notice the man across the corridor.
At first, it’s just the way my eyes land on him and don’t slide off again. He’s standing near a support column, one shoulder against the concrete, posture loose like he’s waiting rather than passing through. Short, cropped hair, wearing another white half-skeleton mask just like Armen’s.
Oh, right. That one’s Sting.
He’s looking directly at me. Not flicking a glance and moving on. Not checking his surroundings. Just watching. His head is angled slightly, chin tipped down, eyes locked on me.
I hold his gaze longer than I should. Something tightens in my chest. Not fear. Awareness. I look away first, fixing my attention on the floor, counting the thin cracks in the concrete between my boots. When I glance back a moment later, he hasn’t moved.
