My chest heaves. I bare my teeth.
The door hisses open.
Of course it’s her.
She steps in, unfazed by the mess. Her eyes flick across the room, taking in the broken tools, the shaking table leg, the tremor in my posture.
She doesn’t yell.
She crouches.
“What are you doing?” I bark.
“Cleaning,” she says calmly.
“You’re not gonna report me?” My voice is a threat wrapped in acid.
“Nope.”
I narrow my eye. “Why not?”
She lifts a shard of the tray, holds it to the light. “Because then I’d have to do paperwork. And I hate paperwork almost as much as I hate patient drama.”
I bark a bitter laugh. “Drama?”
She glances up. “You think you’re the first pissed-off warrior I’ve seen chuck a food tray like a toddler? Come on.”
I bristle. “You have no idea what I’ve seen.”
She straightens, her stance casual. “Try me.”
“I’ve killed men bigger than you for breathing wrong.”
“Neat,” she deadpans. “You want a cookie? Or maybe another tray to throw?”
My mouth opens. Closes. I don’t know what to do with this woman.
She walks closer. I stiffen. She stops a foot from me, not flinching at my height or heat or fury. Her eyes search my face—not for weakness. Fortruth.
“Why are you really angry, Kyldak?” she asks, quiet but sharp. “Is it the limbs? The war? Or that someone saw you broken and lived to tell about it?”
I flinch before I can stop it.
She nods, like she expected it.
“You’re not broken,” she adds. “You’re just paused. And tomorrow, we start pressing play.”
I scoff. “You think I’m gonna march into your sterile torture room like a good little soldier?”
“No,” she says. “I think you’ll show up because you still want to be something more than a legend who burned out.”
I snarl. “Don’t you dare talk about my legend.”
“I’m not,” she snaps back. “I’m talking about the man still standing here, right now, pissed off and proud and—whether you like it or not—alive.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine. I hate how steady they are. Like sheknowssomething about me I don’t.
“I won’t coddle you,” she says. “I won’t lie to you. But I will challenge you.”
