“Am I supposed to be ‘them’ in this scenario?” Io snapped. Adrenaline pumped through her chest; in a burst of courage, Io lifted her eyes to his. “I am a cutter. I’m paying an extra danger fee to live in my building. My private investigator license was rejected, twice, on the basis of threatening abilities. You have a job other-born can only dream of, you’re drinking coffee with the future Mayor, and you’re dressed in a suit the price of my rent. It’s bad for all of us but this”—Io gestured at the porcelain cups, the well-dressed guests, the sweet-smelling patio—“is a layer of protection few
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