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Her on one side. My orders on the other. And me standing in the middle.
“What are you going to do?”
The answer should have been simple.
It had always been simple.
Obey.
Complete.
Move on.
Instead, I said, “Nothing.”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“I am not carrying out the order.”
The words existed now.
Spoken.
Not delayed. Not reconsidered. Not pending further evidence.
Refusal. Direct.
My chest tightened.
Talia searched my face. “Why?”
Because the mission was compromised. Because her file had been manufactured. Because someone had connected Ghost identities to reproductive records. Because the safehouse had been queried. Because a royal classification tag appeared among altered compatibility files. Because my legal death record had been accessed.
All of that was true. It should have been enough. But the answer that came first was different.
“Because I do not believe you deserve to die.”
Her expression changed.
I reached for the medical kit, my movement sharp with frustration. A thin line of blood had already begun tracing a path along the side of my hand.
Talia’s gaze snapped to it immediately. “You’re bleeding,” she said, her voice tight.
“It is minor.” I kept my tone flat, dismissive.
She didn’t look convinced. “You cut yourself.”
“I am aware.” The words came out clipped.
“Sit down,” she ordered, gesturing to the chair.
“No.” My refusal was automatic, a soldier’s ingrained resistance to showing weakness.
She stared at me, her expression shifting from concern to something more pointed. “Was that a reflex?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“Yes.”
“Sit,” she repeated, her voice lowering but gaining intensity.
