“And I get to make sure you’re still breathing while you do,” he says.
“That’s not the same as deciding for me.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “You think I’m doing that?”
“I think you’re about to.”
Silence stretches thin. Fragile.
“You want to go on the offensive,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And I want to make sure you don’t die for a principle.”
“I’m not dying,” I say. “I’m choosing.”
“Choice gets people killed.”
“So does fear.”
That hits.
I see it.
Not in his words—but in the way his shoulders go rigid. The way something old and sharp moves behind his eyes.
His voice drops.
“You don’t know what fear costs.”
I study him then.
Really study him.
The control. The exhaustion. The violence he keeps locked down so tight it leaks out in silence.
“You’re right,” I say softly. “I don’t.”
A step closer.
“But I know what it costs me.”
He moves toward me.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just inevitable.
“This ends with you exposed,” he says. “On a board you can’t step off.”
“I’m already on it,” I reply. “The only difference is whether I move… or wait.”
“You don’t get to gamble with your life.”
“Yes,” I say quietly, “I do.”
