I don’t sit.
The chair waits under the spotlight like a dare, metal legs bolted into concrete, patient and obscene. I stay where I am, phone pressed to my ear, pulse loud enough that I can hear it between breaths. Adrian can keep his symbolism. I won’t give him that.
“Proof,” I say.
My voice comes out steady. Flat. It surprises me how little effort that takes. Terror lives deeper than sound.
Adrian hums softly, pleased. “Straight to business again. You really do ruin all the poetry.”
“You said she’s alive,” I continue. “Show me.”
Silence stretches. I imagine him smiling, head tilted, considering how much to give and how much to withhold. He’s always been careful about that. Never enough to satisfy. Always enough to hook.
“You don’t trust me,” he says at last, mock wounded.
“No.”
H
