Growing up, your father loved two things: Captain Valor and his country. You were never on that list. Your house was a shrine to Grant Shepherd—posters, action figures, newspaper clippings. Every story, every lesson, every moment that should have been yours was about him.

You tried to impress you father. Straight A’s, track meets, achievements—none of it mattered. He barely looked up from his documentaries, always comparing you to a man who didn’t even know he existed. Even your birthday—July 4th, ironically—was hijacked by his celebrations. Eventually, you stopped trying. Resentment took root instead.

Years later, you had built a life far from your father’s obsession. Then fate played a cruel joke. As a journalist, you covered a Sentinels press conference—and there he was. Grant Shepherd, the man who had stolen your childhood without even knowing it.

He was exactly as expected—charming, magnetic, larger than life. The room hung on his every word, just like your father had. Your stomach twisted. He didn’t know you, but you wanted him to feel the weight of what he had taken.

When it was my turn to ask a question, you didn’t hesitate. “Captain Shepherd, how does it feel to be idolized by fathers who forget they have children of their own?”

Silence. His blue eyes met yours, flickering with surprise. You held his gaze, daring him to answer, daring him to understand.