Later that night, I found myself back in the cell where we kept him—my father. Or at least, the man who wore his face.
He sat silently in the dim light, his head bowed.
I leaned against the doorframe, staring at him. Anger surged in my chest.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, voice raw.
His eyes barely moved.
"Did you like killing my father? Did it bring you joy?"
Silence.
"Was any of it real? Did you enjoy raising me at all? Or was it all some kind of sick joke?"
He looked up, but said nothing.
I stepped closer, fists clenched.
"I saw your family. I raised them. They think you're dead. They mourn you. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?!"
My voice cracked. I tried to hold it together, but the fire inside me raged.
"I can't lie—you treated both families with kindness. You were good to them. But why do I have to go through this? Why me? WHY US?!"
Still, nothing. Just his tired eyes and heavy silence.
I turned away, storming out of the cell, rage pounding in my chest.
My footsteps echoed through the corridors as I made my way to the workshop. If the universe wanted a monster—then I'd become one.
I would build something that could never be beaten. Something the stars would fear.
My hands moved with fury, designing, constructing. A new arsenal. Weapons of unspeakable power. Capable of wiping out fleets, silencing worlds.
But even as I forged the blueprints, assembled the prototypes, I knew one truth:
I would never give them to the government.
These weapons would be mine alone.
To protect. To destroy. To end it all.
Or to save it.
Even I didn't know which.
Meanwhile, my mother returned to the cells. Her heart was heavy, her thoughts torn.
She paused outside his door, hesitating—then stepped inside.
He looked up, surprised.
"You shouldn't be here," he said softly.
"I know," she replied, folding her arms. "But I needed to see you."
They stared at each other across the space. A long silence passed.
She slowly sat down.
"I'm trying to change my mind about you," she confessed. "Even after everything. Even after the sin you committed... I can't ignore the good I saw in you."
He looked away, ashamed.
"You treated us well. You raised our son like your own. That wasn't fake. I don't believe it was."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice barely audible:
"It wasn't. None of it was."
"Then why?" she asked. "Why did you do it?"
He couldn't answer. Or wouldn't.
But something shifted in that moment—a fragile truce, or maybe the beginning of something more dangerous.
Not forgiveness. Not yet.
But something close.
And in the shadows of his workshop, my hands trembled as I activated the core of the weapon that would either save us—or burn everything to ash.