“You tried to kill me. How did you expect me to react?” I ask her with a pointed look. “I thought I’d be dead,” she answers me without an ounce of emotion. Wait. She knew there would be a high chance she wouldn’t manage to kill me. She thought I’d either kill her for the attack or maybe that, if I died, some of my men would kill her in retaliation, and yet she jumped, anyway? She expected it, and yet she did it, anyway. What kind of desperation is this? “And yet, you’re still here,” I answer. “And yet, I’m still here,” she repeats before adding, “wondering why my back matters when you
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