“Because of what it meant,” I snap.
He stiffens.
“You executed a prisoner, King.”
“He wasn’t a prisoner,” he fires back. “He was a monster.”
“He was intelligence.”
“He was a threat!”
“He was our lead!”
His chest heaves. Mine isn’t much steadier. The heavy bag swings lazily behind him, chain creaking, like the room itself is holding its breath.
“You would’ve done it too,” he says.
The accusation lands low and dirty because it isn’t just bait. It’s a question he already thinks he knows the answer to. A question I hate because I hate how much I have to force the truth through my own teeth.
“No,” I say quietly. “I wouldn’t have.”
He stares at me. Long. Hard. Trying to read whether I mean it or whether I’m just wearing rank like a shield.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
We hold eye contact.
Years of trust, blood, and survival.
Fracturing.
“You think I’m broken,” he says slowly.
“I think you’re tired,” I answer. “I think every war finally caught up to you.”
He scoffs. “Funny. Didn’t seem to bother you when I was pulling your ass out of fire.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“No, let’s do that,” he shoots back, anger finally breaking through the flatness. “Let’s talk about all the times I was good enough. Good enough to clean up your messes. Good enough to disappear into the dark and come back with blood on me so everyone else could keep pretending they were clean. But I cross one line and suddenly I’m too damaged to function?”
“This isn’t one line.”
“It was one decision.”
“It was murder.”
His mouth twists. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
I step closer before I realize I’m doing it. “You think I don’t know what I am?”
“I think you know exactly what you are,” he says. “I also think you’ve decided I don’t get to be the same.”
“That’s not what this is.”
He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “Then tell me what it is, because from where I’m standing, this sure as hell looks like you found a line after all—and I’m the one you’re leaving on the wrong side of it.”
