A breath passes through my teeth, derisive. Whether or not he chooses to think of it as such, at best, he's still taking orders. At worst, this becomes an excuse for him to work out a deeper desire for violence, for pain, for a challenge that he values above trying to understand the situation in full. I can already sense the way that this island functions, under a rule that's about trust rather than justice. In certain areas, it's the right model to have; I'll be the last person who preaches the need for an absolute adherence to the rules. But on my end, it makes me no more inclined to listen.

(Not now. Not for this.)

Without a word, my teeth grind as I feel him grabbing for my arm with an almost surprising amount of strength, and my breath rushes from my lips as I feel the brunt of his kick against my leg— there'll be a bruise, although I don't think it's broken. I lift my own in response, hands turning to grab onto his wrists for balance, and though I'll have no guarantee that he won't simply ease out from under the grip, I kick off the ground and aim to deliver a blow square in his chest with the heel of my boot. All I need is space. If I have space, then I'll have the chance to pull out a tool or two.