"So teach me."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Because that's what she's asking for—not just connection, not just the intimacy we shared last night, but apprenticeship. She wants to learn not just the philosophy behind what I do, but the practice of it.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you deserve better than becoming what I am."
Her face changes, anger giving way to something colder, more calculating. "And what are you, exactly? Because from where I'm sitting, you're someone who stopped a monster that the system protected. Someone who saw through my father's performance when everyone else was fooled. Someone who delivered justice when no one else would."
"I'm someone who ruins everything he touches."
The admission comes out rawer than I intended, carrying weight from years of careful isolation, of building walls between myself and anything that might matter. Because that's what I do—I destroy things. Corrupt cops, abusive husbands, predators who've escaped consequences. The common thread isn't justice, it's destruction. And now I've aimed that destruction at the most important person in my life.
"You didn't ruin me," she says softly. "You saved me. How don’t you see that? You gave me justice when no one else would. You helped me understand that survival isn't the same as living."
But I did ruin her. Maybe not in ways she can see yet, but irrevocably.
"You're just a girl," I repeat, like the number itself will convince her. "You should be worried about prom and graduation and college roommates. Not corresponding with killers and learning about the philosophy of necessary violence."
"But I'm not worried about those things. I'm worried about you walking away from the only honest relationship either of us has ever had because you think you know what's best for me."
The accusation stings because it's accurate. I am making this decision for both of us, without consulting her, based on my assessment of what her future should look like. It's exactly the kind of paternalistic control that she's spent her life fighting against.
But that doesn't make it wrong.
"Sometimes adults have to make difficult decisions to protect people they care about," I say, hating how condescending the words sound even as I speak them.
Her face goes white, then red, fury replacing hurt with lightning speed. "Adults? You're going to pull rank on me now? After everything we've shared, after last night, you're going to treat me like a child who doesn't know her own mind?"
"You are a child. Legally, emotionally, developmentally—"
"Fuck you."
The words crack like a whip, cutting through my explanations with surgical precision. Because she's right to be furious. I'm doing exactly what every other adult in her life has done—making decisions for her, dismissing her autonomy, treating her like someone who needs protection rather than someone who deserves choice.
But I can't stop. Can't let the rightness of her anger change the wrongness of what continuing this would do to both of us.
"I'm trying to protect you," I say.
"From what? From happiness? From feeling understood? From having someone in my life who sees me clearly and isn't afraid of what he sees?"
From becoming like me. From carrying the weight of violence on your conscience. From learning that love and destruction can occupy the same space in a human heart. From discovering that the line between justice and revenge is thinner than you think, and easier to cross than you imagine.
"From making choices you'll regret when you're older and understand what you gave up."
She stares at me for a long moment, green eyes bright with unshed tears and building rage. "You mean choicesyou'llregret. Because you're the one who's afraid, Kent. You're the one who can't handle what this means."
The observation hits deeper than I want to admit. Because she's not wrong—I am afraid. Terrified of what happens when someone matters enough to compromise the careful distance that's kept me functional. Terrified of watching her transform from someone who survived a monster into someone who chooses to become one.
Most of all, terrified that she's right about us, that what we have is worth the risks, worth the complications, worth the destruction it might bring to both our carefully constructed lives.
Fear doesn't change facts. And the facts are simple: she's seventeen, I'm a killer, and mixing those two realities creates something that will poison everything good about who she's becoming.
"Maybe I am afraid," I admit. "But that doesn't change what's right."
"Right according to who? Society? The same society that protected my father while he terrorized his family? The same system that would have let him continue hurting people if you hadn't intervened?"
