I hear Armen inhale, slow and controlled. “Don’t,” he says again.
“I didn’t do anything,” I snap.
“You looked back.”
“So did he.”
Across the corridor, Sting pushes off the wall. He takes one step forward. Then another. Not toward me. Not directly. Just enough that the distance between us shortens, subtly, like a line being reeled in.
He stops. Still not close enough to touch. Still far enough that nothing has technically happened. But now there’s no mistaking it. He’s not just watching anymore. He’s approaching.
Armen steps closer to me, his presence solid at my side. He doesn’t block my view. He doesn’t move in front of me. He just stands there.
Between us, across the corridor, Sting waits.
27
VI
Armen breaksthe moment without saying anything.
His hand comes to the back of my chair, fingers curling around the metal frame. He doesn’t jerk it or spin it. He turns it slowly, deliberately, changing the angle just enough that the center of the corridor is no longer directly in front of me.
“Sit still,” he says.
“I am sitting still,” I reply.
“Then don’t help.”
The chair stops. The scrape of metal against concrete echoes louder than it should. My new line of sight is worse, not safer, just narrower. I can still see movement, boots passing, bodies drifting in and out of view, but Sting is no longer squarely in front of me.
Which means I have to turn my head to see him.
I don’t dare.
Armen steps closer, his leg brushing the side of the chair as he repositions himself. He plants his feet and stays there, close enough that his presence registers without him touching me. It’s not comforting. It’s controlling.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“This isn’t about you,” he says.
“That’s what everyone says right before it is.”
He doesn’t react to that. Instead, he reaches down and adjusts the position of my chair again, pulling it back a few inches so my knees are no longer near the main path through the corridor.
The movement tugs at my wrists. The rope bites. I suck in a breath before I can stop myself.
Armen’s head snaps down. “You good?”
“My knee,” I say.
He crouches just enough to look at it, his gaze quick and assessing. He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t apologize.
“Don’t shift your weight like that,” he says. “You’ll make it worse.”
“I didn’t plan to,” I snap.
“Plan better.”
