I let the chair fall flat on all four legs and lean in too.
“You know what’s interesting?” I say softly. “If you already think I’m lying… it doesn’t matter what I say, does it?”
His stare hardens.
“Careful.”
“With what?”
The light flickers again. This time longer. The room dims.
For a split second we’re almost in shadow.
When it steadies, he’s still watching me like I’m something that needs to be dissected.
And I smile again.
“Dangerous game, bakery girl,” Vaska says, his voice dropping lower.
“Is it?” I lean back again, letting the chair wobble. “I just answered your questions. Not my fault you don’t like the answers.”
Vaska’s hand slides into his pocket. When it emerges, there’s a knife. Not his usual, this one is small. Elegant. The kind that’s meant for precision rather than intimidation.
He sets it on the table between us, the blade catching the flickering light.
I look at it. Then at him.
“That supposed to scare me?” I ask.
His hand moves fast, the knife is off the table in seconds, zipping past my ear into the wall behind me with a thud.
The sound rings sharp and close. My eyes stay on his. I figured that was coming.
He watches my face carefully. “I was curious,” he says evenly.
“About?”
“If you’d flinch.”
The light hums overhead. Neither of us fills the silence. He studies me like he’s recalculating.
“You don’t shake,” he says finally.
“Should I?”
“Most do.”
“Maybe you need better material.”
He laughs. It’s quiet. Short. Almost surprised.
The tension shifts. He leans back in his own chair, assessing.
“You’re either very stupid,” he says calmly, “or very sure of yourself.”
“Or very bored,” I offer.
His mouth twitches.
