His claws stop tapping entirely this time.
When they start again, the rhythm is different.
Slower.
Intentional.
“Didn’t think you cared,” he says, his voice quieter now, eyes narrowing just enough to catch every reaction I try to suppress.
“I don’t,” I say, forcing the words out flat and even. “I care about consistency on my line.”
“Sure you do.”
“Answer the question.”
“I did.”
“No, you deflected.”
He shifts his weight slightly, the movement subtle but grounding.
“You want a better answer?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I don’t have one.”
I search his face, watching for hesitation, for the smallest crack that might tell me he’s lying outright. What I see instead is something more frustrating—certainty in what he’s saying, even if it isn’t the truth I’m looking for.
“That’s a problem,” I say.
“Not mine.”
“It is if your side caused it.”
His expression tightens just enough to register.
“You’re reaching,” he says.
“And you’re dodging.”
The tension spikes again, sharper this time, less controlled.
“You should let it go,” he says.
“No.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”
Something changes in him then, something that strips away a layer of that easy swagger and leaves something more dangerous underneath.
“Careful,” he says, his voice dropping low. “You’re starting to sound like you think you have authority over me.”
“I don’t need authority to ask questions,” I reply. “I just need answers.”
“And I told you I don’t have them.”
