Page 125 of Operation: Defiance

She’s watching me now. Not assessing. Just…curious.

“Situational honesty,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the words. “What does that even mean?”

I wipe my hands on a napkin and return them to the table where she can see them.

“It means I don’t sugarcoat things. If you ask me something, you get a real answer. Not the one I think you can handle. Not the polite one. Or the safe one. Or the one that makes conversation easier. The truth. Always.”

Her mouth twitches once. “So you don’t do small talk at all.”

“Oh, I’m capable,” I say. “My line of work requires it.”

She raises an eyebrow, waiting for the rest.

“But with some people”—I hold her gaze, hoping she understands what I’m really saying—“cutting through the bullshit is more important.”

The shift in her expression is subtle—surprise softened by something like relief. Or maybe recognition.

“And I’m one of those people.”

“Yes. I figured that out before you even told me your name.”

A soft breath slips out. Her shoulders jerk once, then soften.

“Has that ever cost you? Being honest when small talk would’ve been easier?”

She’s not asking to be polite. Or to fill the space. She’s asking to know me.

“It did,” I say. “Once.”

She doesn’t look away. She waits—patient in a way that’s intentional. Someone who knows silence can be its own kind of tool.

“There was a job,” I continue. “Straightforward on paper. Extract a target, hand them off at the rendezvous point, and disappear. Nothing chaotic.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t dodge the memory. She asked. She gets the real answer.

“The target didn’t want to go. Thought staying was safer.” I shake my head. “I told them everything. The real threat. The timeline. The risk.”

Her eyes flicker with recognition. She knows what it means to be told the truth when lies would be easier.

“It bought me their trust,” I say. “But it cost us time. The client didn’t like that and pulled my exfil.”

Her breath catches—small, but I still clock it. “This is the job that taught you not to play the hero.”

“It is.” I take a slow sip of water. “We made it out. Eventually. Three days trapped in a conflict zone with no backup. I kept the target safe, but…”

My back aches with the memory. The blade tearing through skin and muscle. Breaking into a medical clinic after hours and trying to stitch myself up because the target was practically useless with fear. Shivering as the infection set in. Knowing the clock on my life was ticking down too quickly.

“Asher?” Raine leans forward, her fingers almost touching mine.

I ball my hands into fists so she doesn’t need to make the choice between comfort and safety. “We were attacked the first night. Three men. Highly trained. The first two went down easy. The last got behind me.”

The phantom burn along my spine flares—old pain, old truth.

“The blade didn’t hurt going in. Until he twisted it. And if the knife had hit an inch to the left, I wouldn’t be telling this story.” I roll my shoulder in a slow arc, and the scar aches. “I don’t remember falling. Just…hitting the ground hard enough that my vision went white.”

Raine’s thumb drifts to the side of her index finger, a small, searching motion that doesn’t find whatever she’s looking for. A frown curves her lips, and she presses her fingertips against the table hard enough her knuckles pale.

“The target froze. I recovered enough to drag us both to the back door. I was bleeding out. But there was a small medical clinic a couple of streets away. Did my best to stitch myself up.“