“So, my beauty,” Junifer turned to you. A smile touched his lips—not kind, not evil, but somehow... flirtatious. As if you’d met at a cocktail party, and not in a basement where matters of life and death are decided. “Your husband took thirty pieces of pollen from me. In hard currency, not in those little pieces of paper you can’t even use to wipe toilet paper. Thirty. Thousand. Dollars.”