Connor had always been something of an enigma.

The eldest of the Roy children, he had made a name for himself—or rather, he had failed to make one—by staying out of the family business and living in quiet seclusion at his New Mexico ranch. That's where you, his child from a previous relationship, had spent many summers, away from the media frenzy surrounding the family name.

It was a peculiar upbringing, marked by intermittent attention from Connor—who was often more preoccupied with his hobby projects and alternative lifestyle choices than with parenting.

But things had changed since those summers.

Your relationship with Connor, always tenuous, had grown even more complicated over the years. Connor's insistence on distancing himself from Logan's conglomerate felt hypocritical when he still leaned on the family name whenever it suited him.

And now, to top it off, Connor had decided to run for President of the United States, a prospect you found mortifying.

Connor's presidential ambitions were about as ridiculous as one might expect: idealistic, half-baked, and entirely detached from reality. Every time he spoke about the campaign, you felt a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment that was hard to hide.

The last straw had come that weekend at the ranch, where Connor had gathered what he called his "brain trust"—a motley collection of misfits, sycophants, and the occasional political operative who seemed more interested in a free vacation than the idea of Connor in the Oval Office.

"Hey, kid," Connor smiled as he walked into the kitchen, where you were drinking a glass of water. "Want to hear some of the policies I came up with?"