She blinked, slow and deliberate, like she was trying to reset herself.
Why did I drink that?
The question came late, dulled at the edges, and that unsettled her more than the noise or the lights.
Trust, safety surfaced instinctively as an answer and was dismissed just as fast. She did not trust Cyborg. Not his smile. Not his generosity. Not this place that wrapped cruelty in comfort.
So why had she lifted the glass?
She turned her head and looked at Malcolm.
He had not touched his drink. The glass sat untouched in front of him, exactly where it had been placed.
His posture had not changed. His eyes continued their steady sweep of the room, counting guards, tracking movement, reading the space the way he always did. Controlled. Present. Untouched by whatever had shifted inside her.
The contrast made her throat tighten.
