Clyde stared at her with that same flat expression for few seconds, his face unreadable in the dim light of the room.
For several long seconds, he said nothing and just held her gaze.
Then, finally, he let out a slow breath and gave a faint lopsided smile.
"Maybe," he said. "Because I think this old world just isn't that good. The higher realms… they use us. Treat us like crops. They wait for us to grow, then harvest us. Sending us into their endless and meaningless wars. It's not about purpose. It's like children poking at bugs just to see them fight."
His smile vanished as his voice dropped lower, colder.
"I don't like that. Do you?"
The question hung in the air.
He turned toward her then, and for the first time, his eyes sharpened—lit by the faint glow of the antique lamp above.
Sonya could see it now, the quiet fury in his eyes. A cold, simmering rage directed not at her but at the higher beings who had done all this.
And the worst part?
