I hold his gaze without flinching.
“She survived,” I say again. “So will I.”
Something tight flickers across his face—anger, grief, or maybe something unresolved.
“You think this ends with you walking away?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “I think this ends with you making a decision.”
The room feels smaller now. Closer. As if the walls are listening.
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t put the blindfold back on either. And that tells me everything I need to know. Time hasn’t run out yet.
He’s still standing there, not moving or speaking.
“You’re not angry,” I say quietly. “You’re afraid.”
His head snaps up. “Don’t,” he warns.
“I’m not saying that to provoke you,” I continue, forcing myself to stay still even as my pulse pounds. “I’m saying it because I recognize it.”
He laughs once, sharp and brittle. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know what it feels like,” I say, carefully. “To realize someone sees you clearly—and to be terrified of what they’ll see next.”
His jaw tightens. He turns away, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake something loose.
“You keep talking like this,” he says, “and you’re going to make me angry.”
I swallow.
This is the line. One more step and I fall off the edge.
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say. “I think you’re already angry. I think what scares you is that I’m not.”
He turns back to me slowly.
Danger hums in the air now, hot and sharp.
“You should be begging,” he says.
I lift my chin. “Why?” I ask. “Because that would make you feel powerful again?”
His eyes darken. “Because it would make this easier,” he snaps.
“For who?” I ask softly.
He doesn’t answer.
I press on, knowing exactly how reckless this is. “You didn’t bring me here to hurt me,” I say. “You brought me here because you didn’t want to be alone with what happened before.”
His breath stutters. “Stop talking about her like you know her.”
“Then stop seeing her when you look at me,” I reply.
The words hang there—too sharp and honest. For a terrifying second, I think I’ve gone too far.
He steps closer.
