The repetition is intentional. Testing.
I inhale slowly, grounding myself in the scent of damp earth. “Because stopping would draw more attention than continuing.”
His eyes sharpen slightly. “Practical.”
“I try to be.”
Another pause follows, then?—
“You did not panic during the incident,” he says.
“No.”
“You did not attempt to flee.”
“No.”
“You did not seek protection.”
“No.”
Each answer feels like stepping across something fragile.
“And yet you survived,” he says softly.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Do you believe that was chance?”
I consider carefully. “Yes.”
The answer is not entirely true.
His mouth curves faintly. “You are either very honest or very cautious.”
“Both can be true.”
That catches his attention.
“You do not grovel,” he observes.
I tilt my head slightly. “Should I.”
The question lingers between us.
“Most would.”
“I’m not most.”
Silence ripples outward, subtle but real.
He steps closer—not aggressively, not overtly threatening, but enough to shift the space between us.
“You are correct,” he says quietly. “You are not.”
My pulse hammers, but I hold steady.
“Tell me,” he continues, “what do you think happened?”
