“What?”
“That you needed to,” I say, holding his gaze.
The words settle differently this time, deeper, more disruptive.
“You think people see strength,” I continue, “but what they actually see is reaction. Desperation. A man fixing a mistake instead of one who never made it.”
“That’s not how this will be framed,” Lorens says, though his voice carries less conviction now.
“Framing doesn’t matter if the truth contradicts it,” I reply.
His hands shift again behind his back, no longer still.
“You’re not in a position to lecture me,” he says.
“I’m in the only position that matters,” I counter.
“And what position is that?” he asks, his tone sharpening.
I meet his gaze directly.
“The one determining whether you survive what happens next,” I say.
That stops him.
Completely.
“Explain,” Lorens says after a moment, his voice quieter now, more cautious.
I take a slow and steadying breath.
“You think this ends with me,” I say. “It doesn’t.”
“You’re the focal point,” he replies.
“I’m the trigger,” I correct.
His eyes narrow.
“And what exactly am I triggering?” he asks.
I tilt my head slightly.
“You really haven’t thought this through,” I say.
His jaw tightens.
“Then enlighten me.”
“You execute me,” I say, my voice low and precise, “and you remove the one thing keeping him contained.”
Recognition flashes across his face.
“Tyrok,” Lorens says quietly.
“Yes,” I confirm.
“He’s already compromised,” Lorens argues.
