"Cyprian—"
"Your contract is terminated," he says.
His voice is completely flat now.
Emotionless.
Like he's reading from a script.
"Your debt portfolio has been liquidated through Obsidian Aegis financial services. You will receive confirmation via encrypted email within twenty-four hours. You are no longer financially obligated to any collection agency or creditor."
I stare at him.
"What?"
"Your services are no longer required," he continues. "You will not return to this facility. You will not contact me. You will not—"
"You're firing me?"
"I am terminating our professional relationship."
"Because you think I'm a spy?"
"Because I cannot afford the risk."
The words are a death sentence.
I feel something shatter inside my chest—something fundamental, something that was just starting to heal.
"You're serious," I whisper.
"I am always serious."
"You're just... done? After everything?"
"After everything," he agrees.
His face is completely stone now.
No expression.
No warmth.
Nothing.
"Leave," he says.
"Cyprian—"
"Leave."
The command is absolute.
Final.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at him, waiting for him to crack. Waiting for the stone mask to fall away. Waiting for him to realize what he's doing.
But he doesn't move.
