Rex didn't flinch. He didn't even lean back from the sheer, suffocating pressure of Zane's presence. Instead, he met Zane's fury with a gaze of profound, almost tragic patience, the kind of look a saint might give a sinner, or a god might give an ant.
"No," Rex agreed, his voice dropping to a quiet, devastatingly honest register that felt more dangerous than a shout. "It is not."
He uttered the admission with such effortless grace that it was impossible to tell if he was truly oblivious to the weight of his words or if he had simply calculated that a partial truth was a cheaper price to pay than a total lie. The ambiguity was a weapon in itself.
Zane's expression flickered, caught in a violent tug-of-war between white-hot frustration and a begrudging, terrifying sliver of admiration.
Apollo watched them, a cold sweat breaking out along his spine. He felt a specific, primal sensation: the feeling of standing near a roaring bonfire that wasn't burning him.
