I stare at the coffee.
“You don’t have to answer,” she says.
“I was.”
“Soldier?”
“Yes.”
“Vakutan warrior caste?”
A faint, bitter amusement moves through me. “Most of us are.”
“That sounds heavy.”
“It is considered an honor.”
“That’s not what I said.”
No, it is not.
The kitchen seems too warm. Steam rises from the mug. Flour dust floats in the light like ash, though I force myself not to follow that comparison deeper.
“I served in ground operations,” I say. “Escort, extraction, urban combat, boarding actions when needed.”
“That sounds like a lot of ways to get hurt.”
“It is more ways to hurt others.”
Her eyes soften. “Kauss.”
I stand too quickly, chair scraping. “I cannot discuss this.”
“Okay.”
The absence of pressure stops me at the edge of movement.
She holds up both hands. “Okay. We don’t discuss it.”
“You are not curious?”
“I’m extremely curious.”
“Then why not ask?”
“Because you look like you’re about to chew through the wall to escape the conversation.”
I glance at the wall.
“Please don’t,” she adds. “The repair budget is already tragic.”
The absurdity strikes from the side. Not enough to laugh. Enough that the pressure in my chest shifts.
“You should not joke about this,” I say.
“I joke about everything. It’s either that or scream, and screaming scares customers.”
“Does nothing scare you?”
