The gun on the table wasn't the problem.
It was the way Eitan handled it—like it wasn't a weapon, just another part of his wardrobe. He tucked it under his coat like slipping a pen into a breast pocket. Calm. Clean. Precise.
"Stay here," he said.
Ava didn't respond.
She leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, trying to hide the way her chest tightened every time the engine of that black car rumbled across the glass. She didn't know who was inside. But she knew what that kind of waiting looked like. It wasn't surveillance. It was a warning.
A storm was coming.
Eitan moved to the elevator and keyed in a sequence she hadn't seen before. Not just a floor code. Something deeper. The lights flickered red for a second. Then he was gone.
She stood there, in silence, in shadows, in the echo of that moment.
Then she moved.
Not to run. Not to hide. But to look.
She walked through the penthouse like it was a stranger's skin. Every room sleek, sharp, too polished for comfort. No photos. No personal clutter. Just money and ice and glass. Like Eitan himself.
She found a locked drawer in his office. Tried the handle. No luck. A panel under his desk beeped when she brushed it. She didn't press it again.
There were things she didn't want to know yet.
She made her way to the kitchen. Poured herself a glass of water. Her hands still shook a little when she lifted it to her lips.
That was when the power flickered.
Just once.
The kind of flicker that makes the hairs on your neck rise, even though everything comes back just fine.
And that was the moment Ava knew—this place wasn't safe anymore.
---
Eitan came back twenty minutes later. No blood. No bruises. But something dark lingered around him, clinging to his collar like smoke.
She waited until he poured himself a drink. Then: "Who was in the car?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"They're not important," he finally said.
"That's not the same as not dangerous."
He looked at her. Really looked at her.
"I told them you weren't to be touched," he said. "Now they know."
She blinked. "That's it?"
"That's everything."
His voice was too calm again.
Ava set her glass down harder than she meant to. "You think I'm yours to protect like some—some kept thing? You don't own me."
"No," he said quietly. "But you came back."
That shut her up.
Because he was right. And they both knew it.
---
They didn't talk much the rest of the night. But he didn't leave her alone either.
They sat on opposite ends of the sofa. She pretended to read. He actually did. Some dense-looking file with names highlighted in red.
"Do you kill people?" she asked suddenly.
He didn't flinch.
"Sometimes," he said. "Do you?"
Ava hesitated.
"Yes," she admitted. "Once."
There was a long pause.
"Did they deserve it?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then I don't care."
And just like that, the silence wasn't uncomfortable anymore.
---
Ava couldn't sleep.
The city felt too still, like it was holding its breath.
She went to the balcony. The wind tugged at her shirt. Below, the streetlights looked like stars too ashamed to be in the sky.
She thought about the people she used to run with. Vince. Kyla. Even Walter, who once gave her a bruised apple and called it mercy.
They'd come eventually. They always did.
And when they did, she'd have to choose for real.
A door opened behind her. She didn't turn.
"Can't sleep?" Eitan's voice was quieter than usual.
She shook her head.
He stepped beside her, not touching her, but close enough that his heat cut the wind.
"You used to believe in anything?" she asked.
He didn't answer at first.
"I used to believe I'd die young," he said.
"And now?"
"Now I think I'll live too long."
She turned to him. "Do you want to die?"
"No," he said. "But I don't care much if I do."
Ava stared at him. "That's not strength, you know. That's just being broken and pretending you're not."
Eitan finally looked at her.
"Then what's your excuse?"
Her throat tightened.
"I stopped pretending."
They stood like that for a while. Long enough for the sky to lose its edge, the night bleeding into that soft, gray hour before morning.
She didn't know why she reached for his hand.
Maybe because it was there. Maybe because she needed to feel something real.
He didn't pull away.
He just let her hold it.
And that—strangely—was the most dangerous thing he'd done all night.
---
Back inside, the silence stretched. Eitan's fingers lingered around the edge of the glass in his hand, spinning it slowly.
"You should sleep," he said.
Ava shook her head. "What if I dream?"
"Then you wake up. I'll be here."
The words came out like steel, not comfort. But they still wrapped around her.
She gave a small, tired smile. "You're not a very good liar."
"I'm not lying," he said. "I'm warning you."
She didn't ask what he meant by that. She didn't want to know. She already knew too much.
Still, something in his voice cracked open a door she wasn't ready to walk through yet. A door marked past. Marked hurt. Marked don't touch this unless you want to bleed.
But even broken things got pulled toward each other.
Especially the broken ones.