“Remember the last time you jumped?” he asks me. “This isn’t the same thing. You were only two stories up in your Chicago tenement—you broke your ribs and your clavicle. You wouldn’t survive this fall.” My eyes widen in shock. He knows about my past—the night I jumped from my foster father’s apartment after he’d nearly killed me. But he’s wrong about one thing. “My ribs were already broken before I jumped,” I murmur. He growls at this information, his face darkening more. “He hurt you badly,” Kyon says. He takes another step toward me, and I inch to the precipice of the skywalk. “You’ve hurt
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