“Who?” I ask.
“Supply runner,” he replies. “Works routes near Tury’s sector.”
“Works or worked?” I press.
He glances at me.
“Still breathing,” he says. “So far.”
I shoot him a look.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
That lands heavier than I want it to.
I step past him and push the door open the rest of the way.
The room inside is dim, lit by a single flickering panel overhead that casts uneven shadows across the walls. The air is stale, thick enough that it feels like it hasn’t moved in hours.
The man inside flinches when I enter.
He’s slumped against the far wall, wrists bound in front of him with a length of cable that’s been pulled tight enough to leave marks. His breathing is shallow, uneven, and his eyes dart between me and Hrask like he’s trying to decide which of us is worse.
“Relax,” Hrask says from behind me. “If we wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” the man snaps, his voice hoarse.
“No,” Hrask replies. “Just accurate.”
I step closer, crouching down enough to bring myself level with him.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He hesitates, his gaze flicking to Hrask again.
“Answer her,” Hrask says, his tone shifting just enough to make the air feel tighter.
“Renn,” the man says quickly. “My name’s Renn.”
“Renn,” I repeat, nodding slightly. “You run supply routes near the border.”
“I just move crates,” he says. “That’s it.”
“You move them where you’re told,” I correct. “Which means you see things.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do,” I cut in, my voice steady. “And you’re going to tell me what you’ve seen.”
His breathing picks up slightly, panic edging into it.
“I don’t know anything,” he says.
Hrask lets out a quiet breath behind me.
“You want me to handle this?” he asks.
