She didn't answer. That was an answer.
The engine under the bench hummed louder. Like it liked this. Like it was listening.
"You should leave," I whispered. "Pretend you didn't see it. I can kill the light. No one has to know."
"And let you walk around with a live sigil in your chest?" She laughed, but it was sharp. No humor in it. "You have no idea what you are."
"Then tell me," I said. "Instead of shooting me."
We were breathing the same air now. Her coat brushed my shirt. The gun was still between us, but her hand had shifted. Her knuckles were white. Not steady anymore.
"You think you have leverage?" she said. "Kid, I can pull this trigger and the Guild will pin a medal on me."
"Yeah?" I said. "Then do it."
She froze.
I didn't blink. Couldn't. My whole body was buzzing, that cut on my palm burning hotter and hotter. The light under the bench was getting brighter. I could see it reflecting in her eyes now. Blue-white. She saw it too.
"Milo," she said, and my name in her mouth sounded different. Not scrap-rat. Not kid. Just — my name. Quiet. "Don't."
"Don't what?" I said. My voice was rough. "You got the gun, Inspector. Your call."
She swallowed. I watched her throat move. Watched her eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before she yanked them back up. Her hand twitched.
And I moved.
Not to grab the gun. To grab her wrist.
My palm — the glowing one — slammed over her gun hand. Skin on skin. Hot. Way too hot.
She gasped. Tried to pull back. Couldn't.
The sigil on my cut flared. Bright. Lines of light shot from my palm onto her wrist, thin as wire, burning but not burning, carving. She made a choked sound, eyes wide.
"What — what are you doing!" she hissed, twisting, but I held on. Her back hit the bench. My body pinned her there, just for a second. Close enough to feel her heart hammering against my chest. Fast as mine.
"Giving you a reason not to shoot me," I breathed.
The light sank into her skin and settled. A faint circle of sigils, right around her wrist, pulsing once, then dimming to a dull silver scar. Like a bracelet. Like a collar.
Her gun clattered. Not because I took it. Because her fingers went numb for a second.
We both stared at it.
"What did you do to me," she whispered. Not angry now. Scared. Pissed and scared.
"It's a lock," I said. My voice was shaking. I hadn't known I could do that until I did it. The engine told me how. Whispered it. "You pull that trigger on me, it burns. You call the Guild on me, it burns. You try to cut it off —"
"It burns," she finished. She looked up at me, eyes blazing. "You just sigil-leashed a Guild Inspector. Do you have any idea —"
"Yeah," I said. "I just put a collar on the girl who came to put a collar on me. How's it feel, Voss?"
She shoved me. Hard. I stumbled back a step, hands up. She didn't pick up the gun. She stared at her wrist, at the faint light still tracing under her skin, her chest heaving.
"You little —" She stopped. Listened.
So did I.
Boots. Outside. A lot of them. Heavy Guild boots on cobbles. And a low hum — a sigil-hound whining.
Her head snapped to the door. Color drained from her face.
"No," she whispered. "No, they weren't supposed to — I didn't call —"
Someone pounded on the shop door. Once. Twice. Hard enough the whole frame shook.
"Inspector Voss! Open for sweep! We tracked the flare to this block!"
Her eyes met mine. Wide. Panicked. The tough act gone. Just a girl my age with a glowing leash on her wrist and a squad outside that would kill us both if they saw what I'd done.
She grabbed my shirt, yanked me down close, her mouth right by my ear. Her breath was hot and fast against my skin.
"Run. Now —"