He sees me sitting there and pauses.
“Talk to me,” he says.
His voice is low, not commanding. Not a godfather’s voice. Just… a man’s voice.
I stare at my hands.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Lonari exhales like I’ve just recited a prayer he hates.
“No,” he replies. “You’re not.”
I force a laugh. It comes out thin and ugly. “Wow. Look at you. Emotional intelligence.”
He doesn’t smile.
He crosses the room and stops a few feet away—close enough that I can smell him. Smoke. Steel. That faint clean scent of antiseptic that means he was near the vault. Near Morazin.
Near the reason people keep bleeding.
“Morazin’s secured,” he says, like he’s removing one worry from my stack.
“Good,” I whisper.
“And Fyr’s alive,” he adds.
My chest tightens. “Also good.”
“And we lost Venn,” he says, and the words land quietly, like he refuses to make them theatrical.
I nod once.
My eyes sting, but I refuse to let tears fall. Tears are messy. Tears invite pity. Pity gets you erased.
I press my nails into my palm hard enough to ground myself in pain.
Lonari watches me do it.
His eyes narrow.
“Don’t,” he says.
I blink. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hurt yourself because you don’t know where to put your feelings,” he says, and his voice is sharper now, edged.
I pull my hand back like I’ve been caught stealing.
“I’m not—” I start.
He takes one step closer. “Jordan.”
My name sounds different in his mouth—less like a label, more like a hand around a wrist.
I huff. “What? You want a dramatic breakdown? A sobbing confession? I don’t do that.”
“I didn’t ask you to perform,” Lonari says. “I asked you to talk.”
