The blue-white glow of the projection was the only light in Gareth's office. Numbers and graphs floated in the air, a silent, perfect army waiting for his command.
Revenue increase: 22% projected. Operational efficiency: 18% gain. Risk mitigation: 45% improvement.
The data was beautiful. Clean. Unemotional. It all pointed to one, inescapable conclusion.
I am right. The numbers prove it. Consolidation is the only logical path.
He waved a hand. The display shifted to show membership distribution. His supporters were marked in cool, efficient blue. Anya's in a warm, chaotic gold.
Too many small nodes. Inefficient. Vulnerable.
He could dismantle her network in a week. Redirect their resources. Boost overall productivity. The system would be stronger, leaner, better.
It was the responsible thing to do.
So why did his chest feel so tight?
---
Bren's voice echoed in the silence of his mind.
"Your power means nothing if it crushes what it's supposed to protect."
The words were a flaw in his perfect logic. A crack in the foundation of his certainty.
He looked at the golden nodes on the map. The Willowbrook Potters. Their output was minimal. Their profit margin was a joke.
But he'd seen Mira's face after the kiln explosion. The stubborn pride. The refusal to break.
Sentiment. It's just sentiment. Sentiment doesn't pay bills.
He tried to focus on the numbers. But the memory of crying children was louder.
I built this system to prevent that. To ensure no one ever has to make that choice again.
But was his system becoming the very thing he'd sworn to fight? A machine that saw people as liabilities?
---
The office was cold. It was always cold. He preferred it that way. Heat was a distraction.
His own breathing was loud in the silence. He felt the weight of tomorrow pressing down on him.
He could win. He knew he could. His arguments were sound. His data was impeccable. Fear was a powerful motivator, and he could wield it masterfully.
But winning felt… hollow. Like a victory that would poison the well forever.
He looked at his desk. At the bottom drawer, the one he never opened.
When did I become this? The man who fights with spreadsheets instead of a hammer?
His hand moved almost without his permission. He pulled the drawer open. It slid smoothly, silently.
Inside, there was no data-slate. No reports. Just a single, old-fashioned photograph.
---
He lifted it out. The paper was stiff, the colors slightly faded.
It was a picture of a young man standing by a forge. He was grinning, his face smudged with soot, his eyes bright with a fire that had nothing to do with the furnace.
It was him. Twenty-two years ago.
When did I stop being you?
The question hit him with the force of a physical blow. He stared at the face in the photo. The hope in those eyes was almost painful to look at.
That young man believed in solidarity. In building each other up. He believed the world could be fair.
He believed in the Guild.
What would you think of me now? Of the cold, calculating man I've become?
The photo felt heavy in his hands. Heavier than any ledger.
---
The numbers in the air suddenly seemed flimsy. Insubstantial. A fortress made of paper.
He had spent twenty years building walls against failure. Against hunger. Against the sound of children crying.
But in doing so, had he walled himself off from everything else?
Bren hadn't endorsed him. His old mentor, the man he'd modeled his entire life after, had looked at his perfect, powerful system and found it wanting.
"His structure. Her soul."
The words wouldn't leave him alone. They picked at the lock on a door he'd sealed long ago.
He looked from the passionate young man in the photo to his own reflection, ghostly and pale, superimposed over the cold blue graphs.
Two different men. Two different paths.
And for the first time, he was forced to admit that the younger one might have been wiser.
---
A chime sounded from his desk. An incoming message. Probably a supporter, wanting last-minute talking points.
He ignored it.
His eyes were fixed on the photograph. On the belief in that young man's face.
He had spent so long being afraid of failing that he'd forgotten what it felt like to hope.
Bren was right. We don't need to choose. We need both.
The thought was terrifying. It meant surrendering control. It meant trusting someone else. It meant working with the woman who represented everything he feared.
It meant being vulnerable.
He took a deep, shaky breath. The cold air of the office felt different now. Not clean, but sterile. Empty.
He looked at the glowing nodes of Anya's network. He saw their connections. Their interdependence.
It wasn't inefficient. It was… resilient. It was a different kind of strength. One he had never learned to value.
---
He made a decision.
It wasn't a grand, sweeping resolution. It was a small, quiet thing. A single step onto a path he couldn't see the end of.
He placed the photograph carefully on his desk, facing him.
Then he stood up. His body felt stiff, as if he'd been sitting still for twenty years.
He walked to the door of his office, the blue projections winking out behind him. He didn't need them anymore. The numbers had nothing more to tell him.
The hallway outside was dark and quiet. He knew where he had to go. The conversation would be difficult. It might even be futile.
But the young man in the photograph would have tried.
He pulled his coat on and stepped out into the night. The path ahead was uncertain. For the first time in a long time, that didn't feel like a failure.
It felt like a beginning.