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I move toward her without thinking, my shoes silent against the velvet carpet. Each step calculated. Controlled. I’ve interrogated warlords with less adrenaline in my veins. She doesn’t flinch as I slide into the seat beside her. Doesn’t speak.
I let the silence stretch.
"You’re supposed to be dead," I say finally.
“I get that a lot,” she responds, raising her glass.
I lean in close, my voice a low warning. "What do you want?"
She turns her head, lips inches from mine. "A deal."
* * *