How to Sell the Truth Without Saying Your Name

The room felt like it had shrunk.

The smell of burnt coffee and stale bread lingered in the air like an indecisive ghost, and for a moment, no one said anything. The only thing that moved was the smoke rising from Marlow's half-spat mug, floating between us as if trying to escape the tension.

Thalia still held the tray, now resting against her hip, staring at me like she was deciding whether to laugh or hit me with it. Marlow was breathing through his mouth, eyes wide, face as red as a tomato in existential crisis.

And I? I took another bite of bread.

"Look, before anyone hangs me," I began, mouth half-full, "hear me out. My arguments are solid. Promise."

"This is going to be ridiculous," Marlow muttered.

"Absolutely," I agreed. "But it might work. First: your daughter is more presentable. She looks trustworthy. Unlike me, who could easily be mistaken for a smuggler with pyromaniac tendencies."