Trafalgar stayed silent.
Not because he didn't have something to say—but because every possible answer felt wrong.
The casino noise had long faded into a distant murmur. What remained was an uncomfortable stillness, thick enough to press against his senses. He had faced monsters stronger than himself. Assassins. Political traps. None of them felt quite like this.
Someone who knew too much—and wanted nothing.
That was new.
His gaze lingered on the table between them, on the faint rings left by glasses, on the empty space Borin had occupied moments ago. Selendra sat across from him, relaxed, patient, crimson eyes watching without urgency. She wasn't pushing. She wasn't retreating either.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
'If she talks,' Trafalgar thought, 'her family might already know. Or they might not. And I'll never know which until it's too late.'
The danger wasn't immediate. It wasn't a blade at his throat.
It was structural.
