“You built something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“No,” I reply evenly. “I built something you don’t control.”
A faint smile.
Polite.
Empty.
“Everyone is controlled.”
He gestures.
The screen behind him flickers to life.
My work.
Or a version of it.
Distorted.
Incomplete.
Forced.
I feel it immediately.
Like hearing your own voice played back wrong.
“You see?” he says. “We don’t need you to design. We just need you to steer.”
“I won’t.”
“You will,” he says calmly. “Because people you care about will continue having accidents.”
There it is.
The threat lands exactly where he wants it to.
My jaw tightens.
But I don’t look away.
“You’re not a visionary,” I say. “You’re a parasite.”
The smile slips.
Just a fraction.
Good.
He steps closer.
Close enough that I can smell his cologne—clean, controlled, intentional.
“You’re going to show us how it decides,” he says quietly. “Or we start with the SEAL.”
My heart stutters.
