He pauses. Then: “I’ll still try to keep you safe. But I won’t lie to you about the cost.”
I study him. Then I nod.
“That’s fine.”
He looks startled by how easily I say it.
“I’m not leaving,” I add. “And I’m not asking your permission.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Good. But don’t mistake this for trust.”
“I won’t.”
“Trust is built,” I say. “And right now, you’re in a deficit.”
He nods again.
“I’m staying because ignorance has already proven more dangerous than fear,” I tell him. “Because whatever’s happening here doesn’t stop just because I walk away.”
“You could still get hurt.”
“I could get hurt crossing the street,” I say. “At least this way, I know where I’m standing.”
I glance around the office—the maps, the symbols, the authority embedded in every surface.
“This place isn’t neutral,” I say. “And neither are you.”
“I know.”
“So if I’m staying,” I say, meeting his eyes, “I’m staying informed.”
“You keep sayingcontainment,” I say. “Like it’s a sealed unit. Like nothing leaks.”
Caleb exhales through his nose. “Most of the time, it doesn’t.”
“Most of the time,” I repeat. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s reality.”
“No,” I counter. “It’s normalization. You’ve lived with this so long you don’t hear how insane it sounds anymore.”
He turns toward me fully now. “You think I don’t know how it sounds?”
“I think you stopped caring how it sounds to anyone outside the system,” I say. “Which makes you dangerous in a way claws never could.”
His jaw tightens. “You think I like this?”
“I think liking it is irrelevant,” I reply. “Power doesn’t require enjoyment. Just compliance.”
“That’s unfair.”
“So is deciding who gets answers and who gets memorials,” I shoot back.
Silence. Then, quietly: “You don’t understand what it took to keep this town intact.”
“Then explain it,” I say. “Not the sanitized version. The real one.”