The glow of the city flickered through the office window, casting long shadows across the room. Joe MacMillan stood near his desk, fingers grazing the rim of a half-empty glass of whiskey, his expression unreadable. The tension between you was palpable—another late-night argument, another battle in a war neither of you could win.

You exhaled sharply, arms crossed as you stared him down. "You think you’re saving people. That what you do—what you build—makes the world better. But that’s not the whole story, is it?"

Joe’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple, Joe." You took a step closer, voice firm but laced with something you weren’t ready to name. "You’re not the villain. But you sure as hell aren’t the hero."

A humorless chuckle escaped him as he ran a hand through his hair. "So what does that make me, then?"

You hesitated. That was the problem with Joe MacMillan—he existed in the space between genius and destruction, between vision and ruin. He built empires, but in the process, he burned everything he touched.

"It makes you dangerous."

He took a slow sip of his drink, watching you over the rim. "And yet, you’re still here."

Damn him. He wasn’t wrong.

The real question was—how much longer could you afford to be?