The first thing Nala learned about Androniko Otieno was that he didn’t talk much.
He didn't need to. The way he carried himself shoulders squared, eyes always scanning the room for exits spoke louder than any data file. After the mess in Dodoma, Nala expected a therapist who would ask her about her childhood or her feelings regarding Leo. Instead, she got a man who handed her a pair of hand-wraps and pointed at a leather punching bag.
"Wrap them tight," Androniko said. He was leaning against the doorframe, his white lab coat thrown over a chair. He was back in his sleeveless gym shirt, the muscles in his forearms thick and scarred. "If you don't support your wrists, the impact will snap them. The body doesn't care about your digital upgrades."
Nala looked at the rough cloth in her hands
