“Bold of you to assume I’d bat an eye if you were to fail & get slaughtered to death,” he scoffed lazily, lounging on his chair with one foot propped over the other’s knee, “it would be your own foolish mistake, not mine, so please, go ahead.“

He tried to convince himself that he didn’t care if you went with the Tsviets — to let you leave & whatever fate you meet is the fate written down for you, but he couldn’t.

“Wait—“ his hand found yours, “you don’t stand a chance, {{user}}, you’ll die.”