Haazi didn't know what to say at first.
He had seen the way Hana's eyes shifted—one moment burning with a terrifying, explosive rage, the next drowning in a grief so deep it hollowed her out. The contrast unsettled him. It made her look like someone standing on the edge of two worlds, unsure which one she belonged to.
Then a small sound broke the tension.
A kitten meowed from inside the room, a thin, wavering cry as it tried to reach the cluster of older cats. Its tiny paw pressed against the glass, tapping softly.
Haazi's gaze flicked toward it.
An idea sparked.
"Cats are born as natural predators," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "Hunters."
Hana lifted her head, eyes red, expression confused. She didn't understand what he was doing, why he was talking about cats when her world felt like it was collapsing.
"But they still also need love," he added.
Hana didn't respond. She didn't trust her voice. She didn't trust herself.
Haazi stepped a little closer—not enough to threaten her, just enough that she could hear him clearly.
"You might not see it that way," he said, "but we are all alike."
Hana blinked, startled. The few words he spoke hit her strangely, like they were meant for a version of herself she didn't want to acknowledge.
"What are you saying…?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Haazi held her gaze, unflinching.
"Evil is evil. That's probably what you think."
Hana's breath caught. She stepped backward, instinctively putting distance between them. It felt like he had reached into her mind and pulled out the exact thought she'd been clinging to for years.
The belief that had shaped her, fueled her, hardened her.
He wasn't wrong.
And that scared her.
Haazi didn't move toward her. He didn't push. He simply watched her with a calm, unreadable expression.
"Do you want to know why we have cats here?" he asked.
Hana didn't answer.
But her eyes—wide, wounded, searching—told him everything.
She did want to know.