"I like dancing," I begin. "Ballet, mostly, but I'm trained in contemporary and aerial work too. When I was younger—before everything—I wanted to go to Juilliard. Wanted to be on stages around the world, performing for audiences who came to see beauty instead of violence."
My fingers find the edge of my napkin, twisting the fabric.
One-two-three-four.
Four twists.
Even number.
Safe.
"In Ruthless, I adapted. Took the dance training and turned it into combat. Ballet footwork for blade fights. Aerial skills for escapes and ambushes. The flexibility came in handy when people tried to pin me down." A small smile curves my lips—not nice, not pretty. "They usually regretted that."
"Kill count?" Blaze asks, like he's inquiring about the weather.
"Seventeen." The number comes out flat. "Maybe eighteen. There was one that I'm not sure survived the blood loss, but I didn't stick around to check."
No one reacts with horror.
No gasps, no flinches, no looks of disgust.
Just... acceptance.
Matter-of-fact acknowledgment that violence is part of our world.
It's more comforting than it should be.
"What else?" Sage prompts, his voice gentle.
"I write letters." A laugh escapes—half genuine, half sad. "As you know. Started as a way to cope, I think. A way to pretend I had someone to talk to, someone who cared, someone who existed outside these walls. Never thought anyone would actuallyrespond."
My eyes find Sage's across the table.
The warmth in his expression makes my chest ache.
"I like even numbers," I continue, because I'm on a roll now and stopping feels impossible. "Everything has to be in fours, or twos, or eights. Odd numbers make me... uncomfortable. Anxious. Like something terrible will happen if I don't correct them."
"OCD?" Jett asks.
"That's what the academy shrinks said." I shrug. "Along with ADHD, PTSD, and a few other acronyms. They love their labels."
"Labels are just words," Sage says quietly. "They don't define you."
"Maybe not. But they explain some things." My toe taps under the table—tap-tap-tap-tap—four times before I force it still. "Why I count. Why I can't stay still. Why my brain sometimes feels like a radio stuck between stations, playing static and fragments of a hundred different songs."
I reach for my wine again.
Take a long sip.
Set it down.
"I have a robot," I add, touching the pendant at my throat where mini-Ro is resting. "Aphrodite. I call her Ro. Built her during a seventy-two-hour insomnia spiral because I was lonely and desperate and apparently have latent engineering skills. She's the closest thing to a friend I've had in years."
"Until us," Blaze offers.
"Until you." The agreement feels strange on my tongue. "Assuming 'friend' is the right word for what we are."
"Pack," Sage corrects. "Pack is the right word."
