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Of course he is.

Near the same place as before, like he hasn’t moved far since I left him.

Good.

That makes this easier.

“You didn’t answer me,” I say as I approach.

He doesn’t look surprised.

That annoys me more than it should.

“No,” he says.

I stop a few feet in front of him.

“That’s not how this works.”

His brow lifts slightly.

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” I say. “You don’t get to just…think about it while people die.”

His gaze sharpens.

“And you don’t get to dictate my decisions.”

“I’m not dictating,” I snap. “I’m pointing out what happens if you don’t make one.”

He watches me for a moment, quiet, measuring.

“Then explain it,” he says.

I step closer.

“Fine.”

The words come easier now, faster, because I’ve already worked through them in my head a dozen different ways.

“You lose outer villages first,” I say. “Not a big deal, right? They’re small, scattered, easy to replace.”

I gesture vaguely behind me, toward the world beyond the walls.

“But those villages feed the next layer in,” I continue. “Grain, livestock, labor—everything moves inward. You cut enough of that, and the pressure builds.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

Good.

“Then the inner routes start compensating,” I say. “They stretch thinner. Quotas go up. People break.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“And when that happens?” I press. “You don’t just lose villages. You lose stability.”

“That’s not immediate,” he says.