A bakery.
Not territory. Not command. Not victory. A bakery. A woman. A room that smells of cinnamon and coffee, where an old woman curses, children draw dragons, and a broken display case hums because I repaired it with my own hands.
I want that more than victory.
That is what frightens me most.
Lenrog watches me reach the conclusion. “You are not stupid.”
“No.”
“Good. Then we understand each other.”
“We do not.”
“We understand enough.”
I take the card.
Not as surrender. Not as allegiance.
As information.
“I will avoid the Poison Memories unless they threaten Evie or the bakery,” I say.
“Or her people,” Lenrog adds.
I look at him.
His smile turns almost genuine. “Come now. We both know the list has expanded. Darlene. Mr. Eddison. The grocer. The tunnel residents. That little girl who draws dragons. Love makes maps of vulnerability.”
My hand closes around the card.
“If you use them?—”
“I have no interest in provoking a man who can tear apart a zoo and leave the dead count at zero.” Lenrog takes another sip of water. “But I will offer advice.”
“I do not want advice from you.”
“That is usually when advice is most useful.” He leans forward slightly. “Men like us do not remain outside power structures for long. We either build them, serve them, break them, or get crushed between them. You may believe you are choosing peace by refusing employment. Perhaps you are. But peace also requires infrastructure.”
“I have no desire to build a criminal empire.”
“Neither did I at first.”
“That does not recommend your path.”
“No. It simply proves paths change under pressure.”
I stand.
The guards shift. Lenrog lifts one hand slightly, and they still.
“You are leaving hungry,” he says.
“I am leaving.”
“Give Miss Mercy my regards.”
