My eyes close.
The memory surfaces—warm light, wood-paneled walls, my father's lap and my mother's arms and the feeling of beinglovedin a way I haven't experienced since.
"I guess it wasn't satisfying either. At least, if that was even death."
I keep my eyes closed.
It's easier this way.
Easier to say the things I need to say when I can't see his reaction, can't watch him decide I'm weak, can't witness whatever judgment is forming behind those dark gold eyes.
"I don't know why your family killed mine."
The statement lands in the silence like a stone in still water.
"What sin we committed to deserve such an ending. You're my enemy. Nothing changes that."
My voice is steady.
Calm.
The calm of someone who's accepted a truth so fundamental it's become part of their architecture.
"But I don't have the energy to give a fair fight against you. Not right now. Not like this."
A pause.
A breath.
"But one thing I'd never tolerate is betrayal."
I open my eyes.
Halfway.
Just enough to see him through my lashes.
He's moved while I wasn't looking—leaning against the pool table now, arms crossed over his chest. His expression is difficult to read, but he'slistening. Paying attention in a way that suggests my words matter.
ThatImatter.
At least enough to hear.
I smile.
It's a tired smile.
A genuine one.
"If your dad thinks you're worthy enough to betray..." I let the words settle, let them find their target. "I guess he's afraid of you really getting the confidence and security to surpass him."
His jaw tightens.
His eyes flicker with something—pain? Anger? The complicated tangle of emotions that comes from realizing your own father sees you as a threat to be eliminated rather than a legacy to be proud of?
I close my eyes again.
The exhaustion is pulling at me now—heavy and insistent, dragging me back toward the darkness I just escaped from. My body is still healing. Still processing. Still trying to recover from a poison that should have killed me.
