Then, for some godforsaken reason, she walks closer to me.
I go rigid, every nerve firing, and stand up.
She nudges her shoulder toward mine, but she’s so short, it hits my side instead. “Very villain-esque of you, training all alone in a secret lair.”
“It’s quieter down here.”
She hums, her gaze drifting past me to the hallway.
“How far do the tunnels go?”
I shrug. “Far enough.”
She nods, but her eyes linger longer than they should.
“Curiosity about this place will only cause you problems.” I flex my split knuckles. “Art’s negligent for letting you down here, but asking questions? The people who run this shit won’t like that.”
She watches me with a curious sort of focus, like she’s trying to line up all my edges and see how the pieces fit together.
“You like it?” she asks. “The fighting?”
I don’t know why I’m entertaining this conversation with her, but the words come anyway.
“I’m good at it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Our eyes meet, green hooking into brown, and for a second the floor shifts.
“Does it matter?”
She cocks her head. “Probably not.”
The way she says it makes me think maybe it does, but acknowledging that means acknowledging Iseeher, and that’s the last thing I need. So we stand in the quiet, pretending we’re not two people carrying this secret in our pockets while they unravel at the seams.
I clear my throat, slicing the moment in half. “Why are you even down here?”
“What’s it look like, genius?”
“You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“I wasn’t aware you were taking on babysitting duties, Champ.”
“And I wasn’t aware you couldn’t follow basic instruction, Half-Pint,” I say.
She bristles, her chin lifting.
“Basic instruction?” she repeats. “I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where I signed up to be your concern.”
“Youdidn’t. Yet here you are anyway, being a problem.”
“News flash. My life doesn’t revolve around orders you bark out. I was told to clean, so here I am.”
“Fine, forget about it, then. I’m only watching out for you because of Art, but I won’t waste time fighting about it. If you have no sense of self-preservation, what do I give a fuck?”
“Great. Good talk.”
She moves directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell that obnoxious scent she wears, and I could swear she’s picturing a thousand ways to stab me through the heart.
