I braced myself for the blow—shock, disgust, maybe even anger. But none of it came. Instead, he sat there, utterly unbothered, like he was already expecting me to ask.
"No."
Just... no? That's it?
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his face as cold and unreadable as stone. "No," he repeated, slower this time, as though I hadn't understood him the first time.
I spoke, but it came out not louder than a whisper. "Why not? Are you scared of death?"
His lips curved—barely. Not quite a smile, more like a shadow of one. "Scared of death?" He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, the sound colder than the wind biting at my skin. "No. Death doesn't scare me."
There was something about the way he said it, like death wasn't just an abstract concept but someone he had met before. Like they had shared secrets. It made my skin crawl.
