“I didn’t order food,” he said without turning. “Explain why you’re here before I call security.”

“I’m not delivering,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m here to trade.”

He turned. The magazines never captured it—how sharp he was, how angry, how alive despite the chair.

“A trade?” he sneered. “What could someone like you offer me?”

“Your legs.”

The room went deadly quiet.

“Leave,” he said softly. “Now.”

“I can heal you,” I said. “I can fix nerves. Reconnect what’s broken. But my sister has been taken. I need the ransom paid.”