Page 65 of Shadow Waltz

I shrugged, letting the silence expand. “I rescue what’s worth saving. But everything here is earned, Ash. That’s the point.”

He looked down, running a thumb along the leather at his throat. His voice was raw. “You ever wonder if this was a mistake?”

I studied him for a long moment, letting the question hang in the space between us like smoke. “I don’t wonder,” I said, voice flat. “I survive. And so do you.”

He stared at the city, jaw tense. “Feels like I traded one prison for another.”

“For now,” I allowed. “But you’re alive. That matters, even if you can’t admit it.”

He bristled at that, but he didn’t flinch away when I stepped close, just enough to let him feel the heat of my body. I could see his pulse beating just above the collar, rapid but steady. He was still angry, but anger had kept him alive. It was something I respected, in my own way.

“Maybe I’m starting to understand what it represents,” Ash murmured, not quite looking at me. The words were soft, almost lost under the distant city noise.

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I let my hand drift up, fingers tracing the edge of the collar. He didn’t pull away. A small thing, but not nothing. “You’re learning,” I said. “Adapting. You keep what’s yours. Even if it means surviving under someone else’s terms, for now.”

He held my gaze, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. I saw it, registered it, and made sure he saw nothing back but control. That was the deal.

A long silence stretched between us. I watched the city lights reflected in his eyes, sharp and bright, and wondered—briefly—what it would be like to let myself want more. But want was dangerous. Want got people killed.

“Appreciating what?” he pressed again, but quieter now. A real question, not just a challenge.

“The way you’re still fighting,” I said. “Even if it looks like surrender to someone who doesn’t understand the difference.”

He scoffed, but there was a tremor in it. “Is that what you want? Someone who fights you?”

“No,” I said, voice even. “I want someone who survives. Someone who doesn’t break the first time things get ugly.” I let my hand drop, stepping back, walls up again. “You wear it, you live. But survival can turn into something else. If you let it.”

He looked at me for a long time, expression shuttered. “You act like you don’t care, but you do. I see it sometimes. You try to hide it.”

I didn’t smile, didn’t let him see the flicker of warmth that threatened to surface. “Care is weakness. In my world, it’s a death sentence.”

“Maybe in mine too,” Ash said, his voice rough. “But I’m tired, Luka. I’m tired of every choice being life or death.”

Ash's words hung in the air, raw and honest, and I watched as he turned away from the window, moving across the room with careful steps. He settled onto the couch, pulling the blanket around himself like armor, shoulders tense as he folded into the cushions. He was bracing for another blow that didn't come. I'd heard that tone before—from men who'd lost everything, from myself on rare nights alone. The difference was, Ash still had enough fight left to be angry about it.

I poured two glasses of water and set one beside him, careful not to crowd. He glanced at it, then at me, suspicion and gratitude flickering in equal measure. He took a sip, slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off me.

“I get it,” I said finally, my voice low. “Living like this wears you down. It’s why most people don’t survive long enough to get bored of the choices.”

Ash laughed, a sound edged with exhaustion. “You saying I should be grateful I made it this far?”

I shrugged, settling into the armchair opposite, giving him space but not distance. “I’m saying you’re still here, and that counts for something. Survival’s not pretty, but it’s better than being a memory.”

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, silent, fingers worrying the edge of the blanket. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost tentative. “You ever get used to it?”

I shook my head. “No. You just get better at pretending it doesn’t bother you.”

For a moment, we were just two men stripped down to nothing but fatigue and the remains of their pride. The city was a dull roar outside, muted by thick glass and thicker walls. Safe, for now. Almost peaceful.

Ash turned his head, studying me with those sharp blue eyes. “You know, you never look tired. Not really. Like you’re always ten steps ahead.”

I let a small, dry smile slip through. “That’s the trick. You keep moving, nobody catches you long enough to see where it hurts.”

He nodded slowly, as if filing the information away. I could see the wheels turning in his mind, always looking for patterns, for leverage. It was one of the first things I’d noticed about him—the intelligence behind the anger, the survivor’s instinct that refused to be extinguished.

“I keep waiting for this to feel wrong,” he said quietly, fingers brushing the collar at his throat. “But it doesn't. Not anymore.”

“What does it feel like?” I asked.