The lights in the security room feel too bright. They sharpen everything. They make the shadows in the corners look deeper. I sit with my hands pressed together so tightly my rings cut into my skin. I barely feel it. Damian stands beside me with his arms crossed, posture rigid in a way that warns the room not to breathe wrong. Two security analysts prepare the footage on the screen, their fingers moving quickly over the controls.
The air tastes metallic. My heartbeat sits high in my throat.
“Whenever you are ready,” one of them says.
I am not ready. I know I am not ready. My body tenses as if preparing to be struck.
Damian’s hand finds the back of my chair. Not touching me. Close enough that if I leaned even an inch, my shoulder would meet the inside of his wrist. It is not an accident
