NOAH
Someone shoot me. Please.
Preston Wolfe's question didn't just hang in the air; it felt like it had physical weight, a leaden sphere resting right on my sternum, making it impossible to draw a full breath.
The table had turned toward me, a collective, predatory pivot of silk and jewelry and expensive expectations.
"What was it that made him notice you?"
I repeated it internally, not with anger, but with the specific, hollow bewilderment of being handed a live grenade and asked to describe its texture.
What was I supposed to say? What answer existed for that question that was both true and survivable in this room?
I couldn't say: He noticed me because I was a drunk mess in an alleyway. I couldn't say: He noticed me because he saw a stray he could put to work. And I certainly couldn't say: He noticed me because when he looks at me, the air in the room changes.
Across the table, Preston was smiling. It was a look that landed with a sickening jolt of recognition.
