The old man does not release my hand immediately. His grip lingers — not as a greeting, but as measurement. Then he lets go and turns, already moving toward the center of the room as if the space belongs to him by right older than ownership.
"Sit," he says.
It is not a request.
Furniture shifts. Boots scrape. No one argues.
Lila lowers herself onto the worn leather sofa, shoulders tight, fingers laced together in her lap to keep them from shaking. Kai remains standing for a moment before choosing the chair nearest her — close enough to guard, not close enough to comfort.
Her father stays behind me. I can feel his attention like the barrel of the gun still pressed between my shoulder blades, even though the weapon now hangs at his side.
I remain standing.
The old man notices.
His ey
