“I am now,” I say.
“You do not decide that.”
“No,” I agree, letting my hands settle loosely at my sides. “But I can change it.”
The silence shifts again.
The Reaper watches me.
Not scanning.
Not dismissing.
Watching.
“Change it how?” he asks.
I take one small step forward, closing the distance just enough to alter the angle of the conversation. The light shifts across his face differently from this position, catching along the edges of his features in a way that makes them seem sharper.
“He cannot pay you,” I say.
Lorens’ breath catches audibly. “That is not?—”
“It is,” I continue, my gaze steady. “Not in a way that satisfies what you came for.”
“You presume a great deal,” the Reaper says.
“I observe what is in front of me,” I reply. “And he is stalling.”
Vihl lets out a low sound that might be a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”
Lorens’ voice sharpens. “You will be silent.”
“No.”
The word lands without force, but it doesn’t move.
I feel his anger spike, sharp and immediate, in the way his shoulders tense, in the way his hand lifts a fraction before stopping.
He doesn’t touch me.
Not here.
Not now.
That matters.
I shift my weight slightly, grounding again, then look back at the Reaper.
“If he cannot compensate you,” I say, “then the structure of this changes.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “And you’re suggesting what?”
The question holds.
Not dismissive.
Open.
