It feels real. That is the problem. Because it contradicts everything else.
“You’re going to get hurt,” I say.
He lifts one brow slightly. “That is a remarkably broad prediction.”
“Not broad,” I insist. “Specific.”
“Then specify.”
I hesitate. If I tell him exactly what I saw, I give him control over it. He will adjust, reposition, turn the moment into something predictable.
If I do not, I risk it happening exactly as I saw. I hate both options.
“Something strikes from below,” I say finally. “Fast. You step in front of it.”
He watches me closely, reading every shift in my expression.
“And you would prefer I do not,” he says.
“I would prefer you let me take responsibility for my own survival.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“That sounds like trust.”
He almost smiles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re starting to use that word dangerously.”
Anger rises, sharp and immediate.
“Why did you choose the ridge?” I demand.
He blinks once, the shift in topic catching him off guard for the smallest fraction of a second.
“Because it offers better control of variables.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is precisely an answer.”
“It’s a justification,” I snap. “Not a reason.”
He studies me again, slower this time.
“You want the reasoning process.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because I don’t know if you’re leading me toward something or away from it. Because I don’t know if the visions are lying or you are. Because I don’t know which version of you is real. Are you going to hurt me or not?
“Because I’m part of this,” I say instead. “And I’m tired of being moved like a piece you adjust when necessary.”
“Very well,” he says. “I chose the ridge because it limits unknown approach vectors, increases reaction time, and reduces reliance on your visions in enclosed space where they have proven unstable.”
I cross my arms. “So you don’t trust me.”