Page 27 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

His mouth shifts a little. “And yet.”

I fill the glass, drink half of it, then turn and sit across from him without asking. He doesn’t comment on that, either.

The silence between us isn’t easy, but it isn’t unbearable. It feels natural. That’s the part I don’t like. He tears bread. I spot a teapot left near the stove, pour myself some, and sit down. It’s after midnight. I’m in his kitchen. He’s across the table. I act like I belong here.

After a while, I nod at the board. “Which one’s ruining your night?”

He glances at it. “A hotel company that exists to lie.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

His eyes come back to me. “It is.”

I get up, walk over, and study the pages pinned there. It takes me a minute to see the problem. One of the approval chains breaks its own pattern halfway through. Somebody patched a missing step later and hoped nobody would look long enough to notice.

I tap the spot with one finger. “This is wrong.”

Behind me, his chair shifts. “Why?”

“Because whoever fixed it copied the format and forgot the timing. The first three approvals move cleanly. Then this one stalls, then jumps. Somebody filled a hole after the fact.”

He’s right behind me now. I feel it before he speaks.

“Can you prove it?”

“I can show you where to dig.”

That’s enough for him. He doesn’t need more once he sees where something fails and how to turn it.

When I turn back to the table, he’s already making something with the bread and meat. He adds mustard, folds it once, and holds it out to me.

I look at him. “What is this?”

“You’ve had water and tea.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Refusing on principle would be wiser, but I take it and eat standing there because my stomach picks this exact moment to betray me. The bread is fresh enough to give under my teeth, the meat is salted properly, and the mustard clears my head in one clean hit.

He goes back to his own plate like feeding me was nothing. I keep chewing, but my fingers press into the edge of the counter.

The next day, the weather lets up enough for me to take my tea outside in the side garden off the east terrace, stone path, clipped hedges, and two guards posted far enough back to pretend I’m getting fresh scenery instead of supervised yard time. Mrs. Wentworth calls it a garden. I call it a prettier section of confinement.

I’m halfway down the path when a young delivery driver steps through the service gate with two stacked produce crates in his arms. He can’t be more than nineteen. Freckles, a cheap jacket, and trying too hard to look older than he is. He glances up, sees me, and slows.

That alone is enough to make one of the guards scowl.

The boy gives me a quick, crooked smile. “You’re the new one, right?”

I stop walking. “That’s one way to put it.”

He huffs a laugh and jerks his chin toward the house. “The whole place has been locked down for days. Thought maybe they brought in a politician.”

“Worse,” I say. “A law student.”

That gets a real grin out of him.