The bandages on my palms pull; I wince.
He notices.
Something in his expression flickers.
He moves to the nightstand, picks up the half‑empty glass of water, and brings it toward me like a peace offering.
I push it away.
“I don’t want your water,” I say. “I want my life back.”
His jaw clenches.
“This is your life,” he says. “Like it or not. Until this war is over.”
“There it is,” I say. “The prison sentence.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“I am not letting you walk back out into a city with Marco’s men waiting at your doorstep,” he says. “Not now. Not tomorrow. Not until he’s either dead or so far disarmed, he can’t send a stray dog after you, let alone men with guns.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Right now, I do.”
The certainty in his voice chills me.
