When I return with the water, the praxiian fixes those big, dark eyes on my face again. “Tell me about you, Barlia.” “Nice try. I’m not falling for your act.” “I’m serious.” The praxiian takes a few sips of water and watches me when he does. “I’m not leaving this floor anytime soon. I can’t go home. Even if I could walk—which I don’t think I could—the place is going to reek of noli for at least another day or two. “Might as well become friends.” Friends? Is he serious? “I don’t need friends, praxiian.” “Jrrru. I’d give you my last name but it’s kind of unpronounceable and doesn’t matter
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