“Not on you.”
“I am already bleeding.”
“That does not make your body a testing ground.”
The words are hard and her anger falters. I do not soften my voice. Some truths need stone around them.
“We use what we understand,” I say. “We do not let need turn you into a resource.”
She goes very still. For one breath, I think I have said too much. Then her gaze drops. Not away. Down to her bandaged arm.
Her voice comes low. “The City would.”
I know. She does not need me to say it. But silence would be cowardice.
“Yes,” I say.
Her throat moves.
“Rosalind might not,” she says.
“No.”
“Adran…” She stops.
Political math crosses her face. City math. Survival math. The kind that weighs bodies against futures and calls the scale necessary. I curl my claws. She sees and shakes her head once.
“Don’t become terrifying over something that hasn’t happened.”
“It has happened before.”
Her eyes lift. Not understanding. Not yet.
Old Tajss. Old wars. Epis as a prize. Bodies as routes to power. History repeating beneath glass and hunger. I cannot explain all of it here. Not while she is bleeding. Not while the tunnel is cracking. Not while my own restraint is stretched thin.
“Later,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “I hate later.”
“I know.”
She shifts to stand, but it is too soon. I rise with her and she points at me.
“Do not.”
I stop. She stands more slowly this time. One palm to the wall. Her knees are steady enough. Her face is too pale. But upright. The math is still bad, but not as bad as before.
She looks at the sample pouch. “Keep it.”
“I intended to.”
“Not because I can’t.”
“No.”
“Because if it reacts to me again, we need space between us until we know why.”
“Yes.”
