His mouth tightens. “You’re not family.”
“No,” I agree. “Thank God.”
His eyes flash. “You think you’re funny.”
“I think if I don’t joke, I’ll start screaming,” I say, and my voice comes out lighter than I feel. “And that makes people uncomfortable.”
Fyr’s gaze drops to my hands inside the node. “You’re using him.”
The words hit the air like a thrown stone.
The corridor goes quieter. Even the ventilation seems to hold its breath.
I set my tool down carefully. Slowly. Like I’m handling an explosive.
Then I look him straight in the face.
“You don’t get to say that,” I tell him.
He bares just a hint of teeth. “I get to say whatever I want. This is my house.”
“It’s your house because you were born into it,” I snap back, the heat rising fast, surprising even me. “I wasn’t born into anything except a government facility with fluorescent lights and a file number.”
Fyr’s expression doesn’t soften. He doesn’t care about my origin story.
So I don’t offer it gently.
“I watched my parents die,” I say, and my voice goes cold. “I watched institutions tell me it was necessary. I watched ‘leaders’ shake hands for cameras while kids like me got shoved into the corners to be managed.”
Fyr’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I lean forward, feeling the edge of the ledge against my thigh. “So yeah—survival is transactional for me. Trust is earned, not inherited. And if you think I’m ‘using’ Lonari, you’re missing the bigger picture.”
“Oh?” Fyr says, sarcastic.
“I’m not the one who tried to kill him,” I shoot back.
The guards stiffen. Fyr’s nostrils flare.
“That’s not what happened,” he says, voice low.
“It is what happened,” I say, louder now. “You can paint it however you want in your syndicate bedtime stories, but from where I’m sitting? You were ready to make me disappear because I was inconvenient. And he stopped you.”
Fyr’s jaw works. Pain flickers across his face, quick and involuntary. He hates that my words land.
I soften my tone just enough to be crueler.
“Lonari didn’t choose me because I’m useful,” I say. “He chose me because he’s done pretending. And because he’s willing to bleed for the truth.”
Fyr’s eyes sharpen. “And you?”
I don’t flinch. “I’m bleeding for it, too.”
Silence stretches. The casino bass thumps faintly, oblivious.
Then Fyr laughs—one rough exhale. “You talk like you’re righteous.”
“I talk like I’m tired,” I say. “And I’m not leaving.”
