"He deserved it."
"He was delivering a message, Leviathan. Don't shoot the messenger." Zenon pauses. "The guys are scared. They're watching their livelihoods get threatened, and they're looking for someone to blame. Ripley's an easy target."
"She didn't do anything."
"I know that. You know that. But fear doesn't care about logic." He's quiet for a moment. "What is she to you, brother?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because I don't have an answer, but because I do—and it terrifies me.
"I don't know," I lie.
Zenon snorts. "Yeah, you do. You're just too stubborn to admit it."
"Enlighten me, then."
"She's the first thing you've cared about in years. The first person who's gotten under your skin, past all that ice and control." He shrugs. "That's not a bad thing, but it's avulnerability. And right now, Varro's looking for vulnerabilities to exploit."
"She's not a vulnerability."
"She is if you let her be." He stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Figure out what you want. And then figure out how to protect it. That's what leaders do."
He walks out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I find her on the roof.
It's late—past midnight—and the clubhouse has settled into its usual nocturnal rhythm.
Music drifting up from the common room, the murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter.
Normal sounds. Comforting sounds.
But Ripley isn't downstairs, enjoying the warmth and the company.
She's up here, sitting on the edge of the roof with her legs dangling over the side, staring out at the Pittsburgh skyline.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching her.
The city lights paint her profile in gold and shadow, catching the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Her bruises have faded to pale yellow now, almost invisible unless you know where to look.
She looks peaceful. Contemplative. She looks beautiful.
"You're going to give me a heart attack, sitting up here like that," I say, stepping out onto the roof.
She doesn't start. Doesn't even turn around. "You've killed people. I doubt a little height is going to scare you."
"It's not the height that scares me." I settle beside her, leaving a few inches of space between us.
Below, the city sprawls out in a tapestry of lights—bridges spanning the rivers, skyscrapers reaching for the sky, the distant glow of Heinz Field. "It's the thought of you falling."
"I'm not going to fall." She pulls her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. "I used to come up to rooftops when I was in college. There was this building near campus with roof access—technically off-limits, but no one ever checked. I'd go up there to think. To breathe. To pretend I was somewhere else."
"Where did you want to be?"
"Anywhere but here." She laughs softly, but there's no humor in it. "That sounds terrible, doesn't it? Pittsburgh's my home. I love this city. But when I was younger, I had all these dreams about traveling. Seeing the world. Teaching English abroad, maybe. I wanted to live in London for a year. Or Paris. Somewhere with history and culture and..."
She trails off, shaking her head.
"And what?"
