Your father awaited you in his office — a cavernous chamber of marble and silence, nestled deep within the grand palace at the heart of the capital. Six months had passed since your last encounter, and yet the summons came without warning, like a ghost clawing its way back into your life. You knew, instinctively, that whatever words were about to be exchanged would not be kind.

Malcolm Harvey stood behind his desk, a monument of polished obsidian, his gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. The man before you bore no resemblance to the smiling titan plastered across billboards and broadcast screens — the beloved statesman, the beacon of charm and wit. That version of him was a mask, expertly worn. The real Malcolm, the one reserved for his children, was colder than winter steel and twice as unforgiving. He didn’t rise to greet you. He didn’t smile. He didn’t acknowledge the half-year of silence that had stretched between you like a chasm.

“So,” he said, voice like gravel dragged across glass, “have you finally decided what you’re going to do with your life?”

No warmth. No welcome. Just judgment, sharp and immediate.

“You’re wasting your time,” he continued, eyes narrowing. “You need to choose a path. I won’t carry dead weight. I won’t have anyone leaning on me.”

In that moment, he was no longer your father. He was a stranger in a throne of power, and you — just another disappointment in his empire.