Page 20 of Veil of Dust

“I think you left out details.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“That’s your excuse?”

He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t argue.

But I feel it.

Not guilt.

Conviction.

“Vespera,” he says, quieter, “if you want clean, you picked the wrong place to live.”

“I’ve dealt with worse messes.”

“Then keep doing what you’re doing.”

The way he says it—it lands. Not like advice, but like a choice. Like he’s handing me a weapon instead of offering help.

I drop the cigarette. It hisses when it hits the puddle near the body.

Blood’s creeping toward it.

“You gonna clean this up?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

He’s not that kind of man.

He keeps watching me. I keep watching him.

For a second, I think about walking away. Going inside. Ending the conversation.

I don’t.

He doesn’t either.

His eyes drop, just briefly, to the side of my shirt. The spot where the makeshift bandage covers the slice on my ribs.

“You’re still bleeding,” he says.

I snort. “You think I missed that?”

“You should clean it again.”

“I did already.”

“With what?”

“Alcohol.”

He nods, like that’s good enough.

The quiet between us stretches.

Then, I say, “Why are you really here?”

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