POV: Nat
I've been punched before. Kicked. Held at gunpoint.
But nothing lands harder than the way Max stares at you — like you're a threat and a disappointment all in one breath.
"You compromised my shot," he says.
His voice is low, steady. Too calm for the anger in his eyes. The kind of anger that doesn't scream — it simmers. Dangerous. Controlled.
But I don't flinch. I don't blink.
"Yeah?" I wipe blood from my cheek, slow. "And you were about to put a bullet in the only lead we've had in weeks."
Silence.
His jaw tightens. Just barely. Like he's fighting the urge to rip into me. Or maybe... walk away.
But he doesn't.
He just stares. Cold. Like I'm something broken he doesn't know how to fix. Or doesn't want to.
Maybe I should apologize.
But I don't.
"I made the call," I add. "And I'd make it again."
He steps closer.
His voice drops. "That wasn't your call to make."
He's taller than me. Broader. He moves like someone trained to kill without making a sound. But I've seen people like him before — walls up, emotions buried six feet under. Machines in human skin.
Still... I can't stop looking at him.
And I don't know why.
Maybe it's the way he keeps standing between me and danger, even when he hates me.
Maybe it's because when I looked up from the alley floor — covered in blood and sweat and dust — he was still watching me.
And something in his eyes didn't look like hate.
"I didn't join DMD to take orders," I say, softer now.
He doesn't reply. Just looks at me for a moment too long.
Then... he walks away.
No final word. No warning. Just footsteps fading down the hallway like he's already decided I'm not worth his time.
But here's the thing:
I saw the hesitation.
And I want to know what it meant.