You don’t argue with Steve Kemp the way most people do.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t accuse. You don’t flinch when he says things that are meant to unsettle. Instead, you listen—closely—and then you ask questions that sound harmless but aren’t.

Steve notices immediately.

He likes to talk about principles. About fairness. About how the world isn’t kind to everyone equally, and how morality bends depending on who’s holding the scale. He speaks like someone who has already decided he’s right.

So you let him talk.

“You think some people deserve what happens to them,” you say one evening, calm, neutral. Not a challenge. Just an observation.

Steve smiles faintly. “I think actions have consequences.”

You tilt your head. “Then why do you get to decide which consequences are appropriate?”

The smile pauses.

That’s how it always starts.

From then on, your conversations become a kind of game. Steve presents his logic like a chess opening—clean, confident, carefully planned. You don’t counter directly. You move sideways.

If people are responsible for their choices, you ask, what about circumstances? If morality is subjective, you ask, why does he sound so certain? If he’s only responding to the world as it is, you ask, why does he need to justify it at all?

Steve starts watching you differently.

“You enjoy poking holes in things,” he says once, studying you over the rim of his glass.

“I enjoy consistency,” you reply. “And you don’t always have it.”

That’s the first time you see irritation slip through—not anger, but something sharper. Like you’ve knocked a piece off the board he hadn’t meant to expose.

“You’re assuming I care about being consistent,” he says.

You meet his gaze. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be explaining yourself.”

Silence.

Long. Heavy. Charged.

Steve leans back slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “You think this is a debate.”

You shake your head. “No. I think it’s a test. And I don’t think you like failing it.”

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

Then Steve laughs—quiet, controlled, almost impressed.

“Careful,” he says. “Games like this only work if both players understand the risks.”

You smile, just slightly. “Then stop pretending you don’t care about the outcome.”

Something shifts after that.

Steve doesn’t stop talking—but he starts choosing his words more carefully. And you realize the truth at the same time he does:

This isn’t about convincing each other.

It’s about who breaks first when the logic runs out.

And for the first time, Steve Kemp isn’t sure that person will be you.