“No.”
Something flickers in his expression again, sharper, more focused.
“Good,” he says quietly.
The words shouldn’t land the way they do.
But they do.
CHAPTER 12
HRASK
Kronin doesn’t choose places by accident, and the moment I step into his territory, I can feel exactly why he picked this one.
The corridor hums low beneath my boots, the sound uneven and slightly off-tempo, like something in the system is running harder than it should. The air carries that thick, stale heat that never quite dissipates, layered with the smell of burnt insulation and coolant that’s been recycled too many times to stay clean. Overhead lights flicker at irregular intervals, casting the space into alternating bands of shadow and dull illumination, making it just difficult enough to track movement if you aren’t paying attention.
I’m paying attention.
Kronin stands where the corridor widens just enough to give him room to move, one shoulder resting against a support column as if he’s been there long enough to claim it. The blade in his hand spins lazily between his fingers, catching the dim light in brief flashes that draw the eye without ever fully committing to the motion.
He doesn’t look surprised when I step into view.
That’s the second thing that tells me this conversation isn’t going to stay simple.
“You’ve got a habit of showing up where you’re not wanted,” he says, his voice carrying low through the corridor without effort.
I let my pace slow as I approach, my boots scraping lightly against the metal floor just enough to announce each step.
“You’ve got a habit of being where things go wrong,” I reply.
That pulls the smallest shift from him, a tightening at the corner of his mouth that disappears almost as quickly as it forms.
“Careful,” he says. “That almost sounds like an accusation.”
“Not almost,” I say, stopping a few feet from him, close enough that the space between us feels deliberate. “Depends how you answer.”
The blade stops spinning.
Kronin’s fingers curl around it, not tightening, just holding it in place as his attention settles fully on me.
“This about the border?” he asks.
“This is about Tury,” I reply.
The name hangs in the air longer than it should.
I watch his face closely, tracking every micro-adjustment, every shift in muscle or posture that might give something away. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker behind his eyes, a fraction of a second where his focus slips before snapping back into place.
“Shouldn’t be,” he says. “That situation’s already been handled.”
I take a step closer, closing the distance just enough to make him account for it.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I saw how it was handled.”
“And?” he asks.
“And it’s wrong,” I reply.
