His eyes change, not softer. More focused.
“I am not an investment.”
“Everything is an investment.”
“No.”
“That’s sweet. Wrong, but sweet,” I say.
His claws flex once against his knee.
“Do not make yourself smaller and call it strategy.”
Heat crawls up my throat. “Do not turn survival math into a moral injury.”
“It is one when the numbers always end with you getting less.”
“Because that is how numbers work,” I say.
“No.”
The word is as hard as stone. I lean forward.
“You think this is new because you got here yesterday and started growling at my meals.”
“I do not growl.”
“You do it with your face.”
His jaw tightens.
“This is how the City survives,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We ration by usefulness. Size. Labor. Risk. Recovery. Children first. Fevered next. Workers depending on route. Fighters if danger is likely. People who don’t need as much take less.”
“You need.”
“Less than you.”
“That is not the same as less.”
I hate him for the words. For the accuracy. For looking at me like the difference matters. I close my fingers around my smaller portion.
“If something breaches, you fight.”
“If something breaches, we are already late.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. You believe your hunger is a tool.”
“It is.”
“It is a wound you keep reopening because others learned to call it useful,” he says.
The words are too close and make me go cold. Not skin cold. Deeper. The kind of cold that arrives when a wall cracks behind you and you know exactly what will fall if you turn around.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say.
“I know you divided food with the same hand that reads death lists.”
