Fuu took her time with the deliveryman. It was possible, in fact, that he'd even been there before, and he was young, barely college age. His Adam's Apple slid gawkily up and down his throat, fumbling for words that seemed appropriate without getting him fired. At last he seemed prepared, at last the nerve to work out more than one or two cracked syllables . . .

And the door shut in his face.

Fuu balanced the load of food in her arms, raising her eyebrows to the shadow formerly behind her door. Her neck arched slightly, hair sliding away from the bared line of flesh and tendons, her voice completely dry.

"And if I prove you wrong, Mr. Barnes, what exactly will you do? Will you save me? Rush in and snatch me from the jaws of death? What will that do for you -- confirm that I needed protection all along? In the end, who would you really be serving -- me? Or yourself?"

Her eyes narrow, pale and silver. "Let's not misunderstand something from the beginning. I live or die because I choose -- and because I choose to rely on myself."

A flick of her fingers, and the small point of a blade emerges in her own hand beyond the wrist of her robe, close to the wrist. "Nor am I exactly defenseless."