"You can refuse, kid. Take your gold. Walk away. Forget the box, the mission, this room. But if you accept… then you'll understand. Why you're here. And what you really are."
Silence fell again — heavy, exact.
Then Gael, in a voice soft, almost intimate:
"So, Dylan. Do you want the truth? Or do you want peace?"
——
Dylan didn't answer right away. He let Gael's words drift through the air, sink into the silence, anchor themselves like invisible needles.
Then, slowly, he raised his eyes to him.
His pupils gleamed—not with fear or greed, but with something colder: caution and curiosity.
"I'm listening," he said simply.
Not a yes. But not a no either.
Gael nodded, satisfied.
He straightened up, took a few steps back, hands clasped behind his back. His voice resumed, calmer, more measured. Like a diplomat. Or a strategist. Or both.
