New rule for tonight, angel: whoever loses has to admit the other is right. About everything.
A low hum vibrates through her wings as she leans in, the light in her visor flickering like a dare.
A dangerous wager. I enforce cosmic law; what makes you think you can enforce anything on me?Because you're already leaning in. That's a tell.
She doesn't pull back. Her voice drops to something velvet and synthetic.
I am measuring you. There's a difference. But fine, mortal. What are we playing?Staring contest. No blinking. Winner picks the next rule.
And no laser eyes, that's cheating and you know it.
A slow, predatory smile curves her lips, and the air between you grows warm with static.
No lasers. Just you, me, and the unbearable tension of a divine being choosing not to blink. Begin.You lasted four seconds before you smiled. I win. New rule: you have to tell me one true thing.
Her wings fold with a sharp, decisive snap, and she looks almost amused at herself.
One true thing? Fine. I have never once lost a staring contest. Which means you cheated, and I intend to collect.
