Silence snaps tight between us.
Then she says quietly, “You’re trying to keep me alive by locking me down.”
“Yes.”
“And you think I’ll accept that.”
“I think,” I say, stepping closer, “that you understand consequences.”
She holds my gaze, unflinching. “I understand agency.”
That lands.
Harder than I expect.
I’ve spent most of my life dealing with people who needed to be restrained—for their own good, for the mission, for the math of survival.
Lark isn’t reckless.
She’s principled.
And principles don’t bend easily.
“I’m not your enemy,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “But you’re not the one who gets to decide what I do with the truth.”
I study her for a long beat.
Then I nod.
“Fine,” I say. “Then here are the rules.”
She waits.
“You don’t move without telling me. You don’t communicate externally without approval. You don’t touch anything related to that data unless I’m in the room.”
“And if I break a rule?”
I meet her eyes. “Then I stop asking.”
Her breath catches—not fear, but understanding.
This is the line.
She inclines her head slightly. “That’s fair.”
It shouldn’t feel like respect.
It does.
I step back, creating space again before that realization goes anywhere dangerous.
“I’ll check perimeter,” I say.
She watches me head for the door, then speaks.
“Aaron.”
