They return to the hotel just as the sky starts turning to ash.

Work resumes. Faces they recognize, monitors blinking back to life. Routine bleeds into muscle memory-- camera feeds checked, security sweeps logged, reports filed with just enough sobriety to pass.

No one asks where they went.

Or what they did.

Or why Dex's jaw is too tense or why Suki's eyes linger a second too long on nothing at all.

They work in silence, like two magnets trying not to tremble in their pull.

By the time the sun disappears behind the skyline, they've been cleared for the night.

Off duty.

Eight hours until the next shift.

Eight hours of silence. Of space. Of breath.

Dex turns to her as she slides her phone into her coat pocket, "I'll walk you home."

Suki blinks, a little slower than usual.

"I didn't ask."

"I'm offering."

She considers him for a moment. His eyes are steady. His tone level. But there's a thread underneath it-- thinner than thread, a wire-- and it's stretched tight between them.

He's going to walk her home whether she says yes or not.

But she says yes.

Not out of submission.

Not out of politeness.

But because a part of her-- small, cracked, and unused to wanting anything-- wants him to.

And that scares her more than anything.

They leave through the hotel's back entrance, the street outside slick with the gloss of late-night drizzle. The traffic has slowed, but not stopped. The city never sleeps. It just waits in new corners.

They walk in silence.

Side by side.

Their coats brush. Once. Twice.

It's not cold enough to justify how close they are.

But neither of them adjusts.

Dex knows where she lives. Of course he does. He knew the night before they met. He studied her address like it was sacred text. Mapped the route from the hotel to her front door. Memorized the streetlight intervals. The fire escapes. The window she leaves open just a crack.

But tonight, he pretends to follow.

And Suki pretends to lead.

They pass a coffee shop with the lights off, chairs stacked like bones. A bookstore still aglow from a closing shift, its window display arranged with poetry no one will read.

Suki speaks first, her voice soft but clear, "You're quiet."

"So are you."

"I'm usually quiet."

Dex glances sideways, "You like control, don't you?"

"It keeps me from falling apart."

He nods.

The words hang between them like mist.

They don't flinch.

They just keep walking.

Suki's building appears in the distance, familiar and anonymous at once. Brick. Worn. A rusted iron gate outside the stairwell.

Dex could find it blindfolded.

They stop at the steps.

Suki turns to face him, hands still tucked in her coat pockets, her expression unreadable-- but her body isn't.

There's heat in the way she stands. Not invitation. Not rejection.

Just presence.

Like she's decided he's allowed to see her-- for now.

Dex studies her in the glow of the streetlamp, the rain painting reflections off her cheekbones. Her lashes are wet from mist. Her lip has a tiny crack from the dry bar air.

He wants to memorize her entire face.

Wants to sketch her from memory, every detail, every tension, every hesitation she doesn't think he sees.

"You don't like being looked at," He says.

"No."

"But you let me."

She doesn't deny it.

She just says, "You don't stare. You... study."

He doesn't breathe for a second.

"You let Fisk in your head today," Dex says.

"He forced his way in."

"And I'm already there."

It's not a question.

It's a confession.

Suki lifts her chin, "You don't scare me."

"I should."

"I know."

He watches her.

And she lets him.

They stand on a ledge they can't name.

She should walk up those stairs.

He should walk away.

They both stay rooted.

"Do you always read people this well?" She asks.

"Only the ones I care about."

She swallows.

There's that flutter in her throat again. That pulse he watches without letting himself reach for it.

"Do you always care about people this fast?"

"No," He says.

And then-- too quietly--

"Not since Julie."

Suki's eyes sharpen, just a bit, "She's not in your file."

"No," He says, "She wouldn't be."

Suki watches him now like he's the one behind glass.

She doesn't ask.

He doesn't offer.

They both know what silence means when it's shared.

They just breathe.

Together.

Close.

Too close.

Their fingers don't touch.

But they could.

And that's what makes it dangerous.

Suki finally speaks, her voice barely above the wind, "This feels like a mistake."

Dex tilts his head, "Why?"

"Because it's familiar."

He nods, "That's not always a bad thing."

"It is for me."

Dex's heart pounds-- louder than it should. His mind is spinning.

Because he's always latched on.

Julie. Eileen.

But this is different.

Suki turns to the stairs. Places one foot on the bottom step. But before she climbs, she looks back. Not with a smile. Not with fear. With wanting.

He doesn't follow.

He just watches.

And that's what undoes him.

Because for the first time in a very long time--

Watching feels almost like belonging.

And for the first time in her life--

Being seen doesn't feel like exposure.

It feels like gravity.

And he turns.

Walks three steps down the hall.

Then stops.

Waits.

Listens.

The click of the deadbolt.

The sigh of her coat hitting the floor.

The low exhale-- hers, unmistakable-- like someone's just peeled off their day and stood there naked beneath the weight of silence.

Dex doesn't leave.

He never planned to.

He takes the long way around, through the alley, up the fire escape. Her building is a relic-- old bones, loose fixtures, windows that don't quite shut all the way.

He knows which one is hers.

He's known since day one.

From his perch across the narrow gap between buildings, he watches.

And God-- he watches.

Her apartment glows warm with low light. Not many things unpacked. Not many things hers. A mattress on the floor, a few lamps, boxes still sealed like time capsules. Her coat is dropped by the door. She disappears into the kitchen, pours water into a glass. He can see the tension in her shoulders as she tilts her head back and swallows three more painkillers.

Probably a headache.

Maybe guilt.

She turns off the lamp.

Moves through the soft dark into the bathroom.

Steam rises on the inside of the window, curling like smoke from a house on fire.

Dex doesn't blink.

He can't.

He watches the silhouette as it moves behind the fogged glass, a ballet of shadows and light. The slope of her spine, the tilt of her chin, the steam clinging to her skin. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't watch. He knows this.

But Dex has never known when to stop wanting.

And he's never been good at looking away from beautiful things that destroy him.

His heart beats fast, not just with arousal, but with something more fragile. Something deeper. Reverence. Fascination.

Possession.

She moves through her space like a secret she doesn't know she's keeping.

And he learns her.

Not just her habits.

Her loneliness.

The way she doesn't check her phone.

The way she folds her towel with military precision before she drops it to the side of the bed.

The way she lays down, slow, hesitant, like rest is foreign.

He watches her chest rise and fall.

He watches the moment something changes.

She reaches for herself.

And Dex stills.

It's nothing overt. Nothing put on.

It's private.

Instinctual.

Her fingers move not for performance, but for escape. Like she's trying to find silence inside herself. Maybe it was the night. Maybe it was the way he looked at her. Maybe she's just tired of feeling like stone.

Dex doesn't move.

He doesn't touch himself.

But his body aches.

Not just from want, but from proximity to something real.

He studies every motion.

Every shift of her hips.

Every flicker of expression as her body begins to respond.

Not because he's aroused.

But because he wants to know.

So when the time comes, if it comes, he won't guess.

He'll give her everything.

Perfectly.

Exactly.

Like she deserves.

Because Dex is many things.

Unstable.

Obsessive.

Lonely.

But when he gives?

He gives all of himself.

And Suki is the only person he's ever wanted to give it to without needing something back.

Eventually, she stills.

Her breathing slows.

She falls asleep, the blanket half-twisted around her thighs.

He doesn't feel guilt.

He doesn't feel shame.

He feels alive.

Morning begins like it doesn't know what last night did.

The city is gray again, soft with mist and early sirens. The streets are wet with ghost-rain that fell sometime between 4 and 5 a.m., unnoticed by anyone but the pigeons and Dex.

He never went home.

Never slept.

He stood across from Suki's apartment like a sentinel, watching the light return to her window. Watching as she stirred beneath her covers, limbs tangled in the aftermath of dreams she doesn't remember. Watching as her body unfolded from sleep like something sacred.

She moves through the morning like a ritual.

She doesn't rush. Doesn't dawdle.

She's efficient. Beautifully so.

Toothbrush. Clean towel. Minimal makeup. A sleek braid pulled tight behind her head. She picks out her clothes without hesitation, black pants, black blouse, long coat. The same boots as yesterday. Always those boots.

She drinks her water in three gulps. Leaves the glass by the sink. Her precision is what turns Dex inside out.

He watches every movement.

Every decision.

And he memorizes it all.

Because to him, Suki isn't a mystery to solve.

She's a pattern to worship.

When she steps out into the gray morning, Dex is already halfway down the block, sunglasses on, hands tucked casually into his coat pockets. He keeps a pace behind her, two at most, the perfect balance between accidental proximity and calculated distance.

She doesn't notice him.

But some part of her must feel it.

The pressure. The weight of being seen.

When she walks into the hotel, Dex cuts left.

Service entrance.

He knows the layout better than he should, knows the timing of the maintenance staff's arrival, the rhythm of the freight elevator. He slips through without pause, without question, like a ghost that belongs here.

By the time Suki steps into the lobby, Dex is already standing by the monitors near the elevator, eyes skimming a clipboard he doesn't need to be holding.

She sees him.

And something in her--

Flutters.

She doesn't show it, not really.

But it's there.

Just a flicker behind her eyes. The barest lift in her brows.

She crosses the lobby toward him, every step a quiet act of control.

"No coffee this time?" She asks.

Dex looks up, caught. Unarmed.

His chest tightens.

Fuck.

How could he forget?

"Didn't want to be predictable," He says.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing in mock thought, "You're already predictable."

He exhales a soft breath, "I'll do better tomorrow."

She doesn't smile.

But her eyes say good.

They ride the elevator up together.

She stands on his left, just far enough to be professional. But their arms nearly touch.

Dex wants to lean.

Wants to close the space.

He doesn't.

The elevator hums with silence, smooth and slow. Floor numbers blink overhead like a countdown to something neither of them are ready for.

They reach the penthouse.

The command center is already awake with quiet movement, Agent Lim's laugh in the corner, the other agent is muttering into a radio, a few techs reviewing camera logs.

Dex always sits near Lim.

Has since day one.

But today?

Today he walks past his usual seat without pause.

And he pulls out the chair next to Suki.

Lim notices. Lifts an eyebrow.

Says nothing.

Suki glances at Dex but doesn't comment either.

She just opens her laptop, logs into the Bureau interface, and begins typing.

Dex follows.

They work side by side in silence.

But it's not quiet.

There's a current now.

A hum.

An invisible wire strung between their chairs, between their hands, between every inch of space they've decided not to close.

Suki clicks open a case log.

Dex mirrors her movement, his screen casting faint light on the side of her face.

He watches the way her fingers move on the keyboard, quick, exact.

She watches the feed from Fisk's room, jaw tight, gaze unreadable.

Their arms nearly brush.

And she doesn't shift away.

Dex turns slightly in his chair, leans just enough to speak without being heard by anyone else.

"You smell like lavender."

Suki pauses.

Turns slowly.

Then--

She turns back to her screen.

And says nothing.

But she doesn't tell him he's wrong.

Doesn't tell him to stop.

Doesn't tell him to move his chair.

She just keeps typing.

The day wears on, a dull hum of surveillance and protocol.

The command center glows in soft LED blue. Screens flicker. Agents shuffle papers, radio clicks whisper low bursts of static. Fisk sits in his hotel cell on the main feed, unmoving, monk-like. He eats when he's fed. He doesn't talk. He waits.

Dex doesn't watch him.

Dex watches her.

Suki types in short, even bursts. Her posture never breaks, not even as the hours drag on and the other agents begin to slump or lean or fidget. She's straight-backed and sharp-eyed, precision in motion.

But her attention shifts when the elevator dings.

Dex notices the moment it happens.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't turn.

But she sees.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Agent Ray Nadeem rise from his desk, his tired face flickering into something brighter-- relief-- as a woman crosses the room.

She's beautiful in that quiet, deeply lived-in way. Gold earrings, a floral scarf around her neck, a bag in her hand. She moves with gentle purpose, straight to her husband. Dex hears her murmur his name.

Ray steps around the desk like he hasn't seen her in a week.

Maybe he hasn't.

They speak low. Then softer.

Then suddenly, in Hindi.

Dex doesn't understand a word.

But Suki does.

Of course she does.

She doesn't make it obvious, doesn't tilt her head or adjust her position, but he sees the flicker in her expression. The subtle tuning of her ears. The way her breath stills just slightly, her fingers freezing on the keyboard mid-sentence.

She's listening.

She's interested.

Dex's stomach curls.

Ray takes the Tupperware. The folded clothes. The little mouthwash bottle.

His wife touches his wrist when she says goodbye. They don't kiss. But they linger. And then she's gone, as quickly as she came.

Suki's eyes return to her screen.

But Dex doesn't miss the way they linger just a second too long on Nadeem's retreating figure. How she watches him carry the bag of clothes to the corner and set them gently beside his desk.

Something coils inside Dex.

Something ugly.

He doesn't care that it's her job to read people. To study patterns. To notice weakness and motive.

He knows that.

But he doesn't like it.

Not when she's sitting next to him.

Not when she hasn't looked at him in ten whole minutes.

He leans closer.

Just enough to breach the invisible barrier.

"Who do you think cheated first?" He asks, voice low and smooth like the blade of a knife turned sideways.

Suki's fingers pause on the keyboard.

She turns her head slowly to look at him, "Excuse me?"

Dex nods toward Ray, "Him or her?"

Her brows lift, "You think one of them cheated?"

"Doesn't every marriage start dying before the paperwork does?"

Suki exhales through her nose, "That's a dark view of commitment."

Dex shrugs, "I don't think it's a view. I think it's reality."

She turns back to her screen, "You don't know anything about their marriage."

"You don't either."

She doesn't answer.

But he's got her now.

He can feel it.

Her attention is back. Her shoulders are straighter. Her posture has shifted slightly toward him.

He presses further.

"You think it was her?"

Suki's tone stays cool, "I don't think it was anyone."

Dex leans in again, his voice low, "You speak six languages and read people like chess boards. Don't tell me you didn't clock that interaction."

She says nothing.

But her jaw ticks.

"I saw you," He adds, "Saw the way you noticed the leftovers. The mouthwash. The clothes. The fact that he hasn't been home in days."

She looks at him again now.

And something shifts in her expression-- not annoyance, not warning.

Something hotter.

More electric.

"You're jealous," She says softly.

Dex's mouth curves into something too calm to be a smirk, "Of Nadeem?"

"Of anyone I look at for longer than five seconds."

He says nothing.

Because she's right.

And she knows it.

She goes back to typing.

But her hands are tighter on the keyboard now. Her shoulders pulled taut. The skin behind her ears flushed just faintly pink.

Dex leans back, satisfied.

He watches her work.

Watches her try to pretend that it doesn't matter.

That the air between them isn't buzzing now, full of everything they're not saying.

She reads people like stories.

But he rewrites them.

And today-- today he made sure he was her headline again.

Not Nadeem.

Not Fisk.

Him.

Suki feels it too.

Every time her fingers brush the edge of the desk where his arm rests.

Every time she shifts just slightly away-- and then back again.

They sit like that for hours.

Too close.

Too quiet.

Meal time for the convict.

The burger arrives lukewarm, tucked inside wax paper, its bun a little flattened, its meat overcooked, the fries already limp. There's no joy in it. No indulgence. It's food as control-- exactly the way it was meant to be.

Dex rips open the paper like he's unwrapping a threat.

"God, they really phoned it in today," He mutters, holding it up by one corner.

Agent Lim grins, "Think he's a ketchup guy?"

Dex takes a long look at the sad sandwich.

Then takes a bite.

Lim chokes out a laugh, elbowing him, "Dude."

Dex shrugs, chewing dramatically, grease on his fingers, "Gotta make sure it's not poisoned."

He's hoping Suki will laugh. Smile, at least.

But she doesn't.

She stands still, arms folded, eyes steady on the tray. Her silence is surgical.

"Gross," She says simply.

Dex pretends it doesn't sting.

The burger, now marked with a bite, is sealed back into its wrapper and placed on the maroon tray. The tray, as always, is both message and ritual: you're not free, you're not special, you're not forgiven.

The three of them-- Dex, Lim, and Suki-- return to the command center.

Cameras flicker back to life. The sterile blue glow of surveillance wraps around them like fog.

On-screen, another agent delivers the tray into Fisk's chamber. The burger is placed on the pristine white table.

Fisk barely looks at the agent. He doesn't react to the burger. Doesn't glance down at the bite mark. Doesn't smell it. Doesn't hesitate.

He just unwraps it. Eats.

Like it's any other Tuesday.

Like he didn't just have someone else's saliva on his lunch.

Dex watches the screen, mouth slightly open.

"If I'm being honest," He says, "that's not the way I thought this was gonna go."

Suki leans back, arms still folded.

"Told you."

Dex glances at her.

She doesn't gloat. She doesn't smirk. She doesn't say it like it's petty.

She says it like it's fact.

Lim grins, half-watching, half texting someone beneath the desk.

Suki doesn't move.

Then the door opens.

The atmosphere shifts immediately-- stiffens, tightens.

Special Agent in Charge Tammy Hattley steps in with her heels clicking against the tile like a countdown. She doesn't come alone. A man follows her. Tall. Gray suit. His face is blank in that OPR kind of way-- like he's already written a dozen reports on what you did wrong before you've even said hello.

Suki knows him by the badge on his belt.

Supervisory Special Agent Winn. Office of Professional Responsibility.

Every shoulder straightens. Except hers. She was never slouching.

Winn scans the room without speaking. Then turns to Dex.

"You should go get yourself a cup of coffee."

It's polite.

But only in the way a scalpel is polite.

Dex's smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Sure," He says.

He steps away from the desk.

Suki doesn't turn her head, but her eyes flicker.

Nadeem is already following Dex out of the room, one hand brushing over his mouth as if the words he's about to say taste bitter.

The door closes.

And Suki listens.

She doesn't get up. Doesn't shift position. She just leans a little closer to the corner desk, types two keystrokes into a blank document, and sharpens her ears like a blade.

Their voices are muffled, but not gone.

Nadeem speaks first. Low. Apologetic.

Dex doesn't respond right away.

Suki hears the tension in the silence. Feels it, even through the glass.

"There's an internal investigation," Nadeem continues, "Discrepancies in your report from the convoy attack. Forensics isn't matching the statement you gave. OPR wants a private meeting with Fisk to clarify."

Another silence.

Then Dex's voice-- quieter. Tighter.

"You saying I lied?"

" I'm saying... if it weren't for you, my son wouldn't have a father. My wife wouldn't have a husband."

A pause.

"I won't forget that."

But Dex doesn't say thank you.

He doesn't say anything at all.

Suki straightens in her chair just as the door opens again.

Nadeem steps back in, the lines in his face deeper than they were before.

Suki doesn't look at him.

She's already moved, opening an encrypted folder on the screen, her hands a flurry of motion-- perfectly busy.

Perfectly innocent.

Dex doesn't return.

Not right away.

He'll get the coffee, she knows.

Because that's what was expected.

But he's not walking to the café because he's thirsty.

He's walking because he's been pushed.

And Dex doesn't like being pushed.

Suki stares at the camera feed.

Fisk takes another bite of the burger, like the world doesn't spin around his shadow.

And somewhere down on the street, Dex Poindexter walks alone, a coffee cup growing cold in his hand, the taste of suspicion thick in his throat.

The room clears slowly.

One by one, agents shuffle out-- tired, uneasy, muttering things under their breath as if language can shake loose what they just saw. The private meeting was brief, but the echoes of it linger like smoke in the air.

Fisk, speaking calmly.

Controlled.

Powerful.

Not angry. Not panicked. Not threatened.

Just... certain.

The way he looked straight into the camera-- into the room-- and said, with conviction:
"He did nothing wrong."

And just like that, the weight shifted.

The tremor Dex had been bracing for?

Gone.

Erased in a sentence from a man in a gray jumpsuit.

Suki watched it all from her chair. Legs crossed. Chin resting in her hand. Perfectly still, except for the twitch in her finger against her temple.

She didn't blink.

Didn't look away.

And she's still watching long after the others have moved on.

Ray Nadeem is the last to leave, shaking his head, tension riding his spine. Hattley walks out behind him, clipboard pressed to her chest like armor.

The command center falls quiet.

Suki waits.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Then she presses buttons.

One by one, the monitors blink to black.

Lim's voice cuts through the silence.

"Hey, what gives?"

Suki stands.

"Shut up," She says, already walking.

Her boots hit the tile like punctuation. Sharp. Measured. Final.

She enters the suite like a knife slipping through flesh.

Fisk is seated at the table again, as always. Hands folded, back straight, like he owns this room, owns this moment, even in shackles and under camera surveillance.

Only now?

There are no cameras.

Just Suki.

And the man who's starting to crawl under her skin like mold on clean walls.

Fisk looks up as she steps in.

Not startled.

Not smug.

Just ready.

She stops a few feet from the table, arms crossed.

"Why'd you do it?"

Fisk blinks slowly, "Do what?"

"You know what."

A pause.

Then:

"I told the truth."

Suki's jaw tightens, "You don't do things without reason."

"I told the truth," He says again. Calm. Low. Almost gentle, "Because Agent Poindexter did nothing wrong. He acted heroically. You read the reports."

"I read your file."

"And I'm sure you've filled in the blanks."

Suki's eyes narrow.

Fisk leans forward slightly, "You think it's manipulation. That I'm playing a long game. Perhaps I am."

There's something about his voice-- measured, deliberate-- that makes her want to move. To act. But she doesn't. She stays still.

Stillness is safer.

Stillness is control.

"You don't help people," She says, "You use them."

Fisk's smile is faint. Ghostly.

"So do you."

Suki doesn't flinch.

But her heart skips.

Just once.

He notices.

Of course he does.

"I don't trust people like you," She says.

"That's good," He replies, "Trust is for the weak."

Suki shifts her weight, one hand clenching slightly.

Fisk continues, "You think you're different. That you're not part of the machine. That you're untouched by the rot beneath the badge. But you're wrong."

Her voice sharpens, "You don't know me."

"I know you better than you'd like."

The air changes.

Grows heavier.

Fisk leans back.

"You're a woman who hates being seen."

Suki's jaw tightens.

"You hate the way eyes cling to you like they're trying to pull something loose. You hate surveillance, even when it's your job. You check every room for exits. Every conversation for motive."

He tilts his head.

"You don't trust anyone. Not even yourself."

Suki breathes slow.

Deliberate.

But her fists curl tighter.

"I know about the first time you killed a man."

That stops her.

Just for a moment.

Fisk doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't change tone.

"It wasn't just a mission. It was more than that. You remember the smell. The sound. The heat. You remember how you felt afterward."

He waits.

She doesn't move.

But he can see it.

The flicker.

The fault line.

"You told your superiors it was justified. You told your therapist it was nothing. But what you told yourself..."

He pauses.

"...is that you liked it."

Her silence is deafening.

"You thought therapy would make it go away," He says, "But it didn't. Because you could never bring yourself to say it. Not out loud. Not even once."

Suki steps forward now, close enough that her boots echo against the table leg.

"I am not yours to play with."

Fisk holds her gaze.

"No," He says, "But you will be useful."

She stares him down.

He doesn't blink.

"Not to me. To him."

That gets her.

She stiffens.

He doesn't say the name.

He doesn't need to.

Because Suki knows who he means.

Dex.

Fisk's voice dips lower, "You've seen it, haven't you? The way he looks at you. The way he orbits. There's no off switch in a man like that. No moderation. Only devotion."

He leans forward again, voice like smoke through a vent.

"And that devotion can be turned into loyalty. If directed properly."

Suki doesn't speak.

Because if she opens her mouth right now, something unprofessional will come out.

She just turns.

And walks out.

Fast.

Faster than she means to.

She doesn't look back.

And as the door closes behind her, Fisk exhales through his nose.

Satisfied.

Because it's begun.

Not the game.

The war.

And she doesn't even know what side she's already standing on.

She waits.

And waits.

The others come and go. Lim yawns too loudly. Gallo chats on his phone like he's off-duty. Nadeem hasn't returned yet. Winn is gone. The command center feels quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that buzzes under the skin. Static before a storm.

Suki sits in her chair, one hand curled under her jaw, eyes on the screen in front of her-- but not seeing it.

She's waiting.

Because she knows him.

Knows Dex will be back.

And when the door opens, she doesn't turn her head.

But she feels it.

The change in air pressure. The pulse of something coiled tight walking into the room. Something controlled, but only just. Something fractured.

Dex.

He moves through the room like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. Not running. Not dragging. Just waiting to be used.

He doesn't look at anyone else.

His eyes go straight to her.

They lock.

They don't speak.

Lim looks between them, half a smirk on his lips, "Well, that's not unsettling at all."

Suki doesn't flinch.

"Get out," She says.

Lim raises an eyebrow, "What, did you finally grow a voice?"

"Now."

He snorts, "Man, you're a lot prettier when you're not talking--"

He doesn't finish the sentence.

Because Dex turns his head just slightly.

And Lim sees something in his eyes that wasn't there before.

Lim mutters something under his breath-- probably an insult, probably something stupid, something he should be thanking every god from every pantheon that Dex doesn't hear-- and walks out. The door hisses shut behind him, a sound like a breath being held.

Silence again.

Suki turns to the computer, opens a file.

A camera feed.

The private meeting.

The one from earlier.

No words exchanged, but Dex moves beside her, pulled like a magnet. He sits down, the chair creaking beneath him. His hands are still gloved. His jaw is tight.

The video begins to play.

"Why are you showing me this?" He asks.

She doesn't answer.

Because she doesn't know.

Because if she says I think you deserve to know, that makes her a hypocrite.

And if she says I need you to see what he's doing, it makes her sound like she cares.

So she says nothing.

The screen shows Fisk sitting calmly in his chair, OPR on the other side of the table. Winn leans in. Words are exchanged. Professional. Cold.

And then Fisk speaks.

"He did nothing wrong."

Suki doesn't watch the screen.

She watches him.

Watches the way Dex leans forward, just slightly. The twitch in his hand. The way his mouth opens and closes like he's breathing water. Like something's tightening around his ribs and he doesn't know if it's safety or a trap.

He doesn't blink.

Not even once.

Then-- suddenly-- he pauses the footage.

Fisk's face frozen mid-glance, turned toward the camera.

Staring straight out of the screen. Dex stares back at him.

The silence sharpens.

Dex leans back in his chair, hands folded. He exhales through his nose. Then turns to her.

"You should go home."

Suki blinks, "What?"

"You should leave."

"No."

"It's late."

"I don't care."

"You're tired."

"So are you."

He leans closer, voice lower now.

"Go home, Suki. Where it's safe."

She stiffens.

"I'm not leaving you alone with him."

Dex's jaw clenches.

Then slowly-- deliberately-- he reaches out and starts turning off the monitors.

One.

By one.

By one.

Each screen blinks into darkness.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Until the room feels empty. Disarmed. Like a stage before the curtain drops.

Dex looks at her as he finishes.

His voice barely a whisper.

"I'm not alone."

He stands.

Straightens his jacket.

"I'm with me."

Suki watches him walk away, her chest hollowing out as he moves toward the glass door.

Toward the suite.

Toward Fisk.

She doesn't stop him.

Doesn't call out.

But something deep inside her whispers-- like the crack of old bone:

You lit the match.

And now?

Now there's no stopping the fire.

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