“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
“Then we stay,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping further as the weight of the decision settles in. “We finish this. We stabilize, then we?—”
“No,” I repeat, and this time there’s nothing left in it but certainty.
The silence between us tightens, not from lack of words, but from everything that doesn’t need to be said.
“This isn’t just about her,” he presses, the restraint in his tone the only thing keeping it from breaking into something sharper. “If we lose structure here, the entire defense collapses.”
“It won’t,” I say.
His eyes narrow slightly. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I reply. “Because you’ll hold it.”
That stops him.
“What?”
“You’re already holding it,” I continue, my voice steady, leaving no space for doubt. “You don’t need me for that.”
He stares at me for a moment, the weight of that settling in layers—frustration, calculation, understanding—before it resolves into something harder.
“You’re leaving,” he says.
“Yes.”
“For her.”
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
“That’s not strategy,” he says.
“No.”
“It’s a liability.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes.”
The repetition strips it down to its core, leaving nothing to argue against.
He exhales slowly, his gaze shifting past me toward the line, then back again. “Then you don’t take a unit.”
“No.”
“You don’t pull resources.”
“No.”
His jaw tightens once, then releases. “You go alone.”
“Yes.”
