I tapped the table once. "That explains the confidence. But it also tells me something else."

Her expression didn't change. "Which is?"

"You're not here because you want to partner with me." I tapped the table once. "You're here because every other path ends badly for you."

"Yes," she admitted. "In most possibilities, I either die early—or become a tool for someone far worse than you."

That was brutally honest.

"So, you think I'll take better care of you?" I chuckled, shaking my head.

"I'm certain," she replied without hesitation. "You pretend not to care about morality, but that's just a shield. Beneath it, you're considerate—sometimes to a fault."

Her words landed closer than I liked.

"Me? Considerate?" I scoffed. "Do you know how many people I sacrificed to get here? I'm the very definition of evil."

She didn't look away.

Instead, she studied me closer.

"A truly evil person would never call themselves evil," she said softly. "They'd deny it outright. But you don't. That alone tells me you're better than the people I know."

I met her gaze, unamused. "Self-awareness doesn't wash blood off your hands."

"No," she agreed. "But it proves you know the blood is there."

That wiped the smile from my face.

She leaned back, fingers folding neatly in her lap.

"I'll give you one example. You don't have to offer higher salaries. Yet you do. Not for loyalty. Not for image. You do it because you worry about their well-being."

I narrowed my eyes. "Haven't you heard the old saying? A wise king rains gold upon his subordinates—because loyalty grows best where gratitude is well fed."

She nodded, a knowing smile curving her lips.

"Then you've just proven my point. You really are a wise king."

For a moment, the room felt smaller again—not from pressure, but from being seen too clearly.

I took care of my people because in my past life, my family wasn't wealthy.

We lived at the bottom, where every bill felt like a threat and every paycheck decided whether we could breathe another month.

One sick day, one accident, and everything fell apart.

Dreams didn't die dramatically—they just got postponed until they disappeared. That memory never left me.

"I don't want to argue anymore," I gave up.

Everything I threw at her just bounced right back at me.

She was a woman—so technically, she was already always right in her mind. Add precognition on top of that, and she wasn't just right… she was professionally right.

I rubbed my temples, letting out a tired sigh. 'This feels unfair.'

When I looked back at her, my words died halfway.

Out of nowhere, her third eye began to bleed—thin streaks of crimson running down her forehead.

She reacted instantly, pulling down the veil and covering her face as if it were second nature.

"I apologize for that unsightly display," she said calmly, as if nothing were wrong. "My third eye are always working. I use the veil to keep my mind from overloading."

The casual way she said it unsettled me more than the blood. She was too used to it.

"So that thing never shuts up?" I muttered.

A faint, weary smile formed beneath the veil. "Think of it as listening to a thousand songs at once. Eventually, something has to break."

Her power was a curse dressed as a gift.

I wondered how many times she'd paid for it with sleepless nights, headaches, or worse—moments when her own mind became a battlefield.

And yet, she carried it with pride. That made her all the more… admirable.

"Let's start with something simple," I broke the silence. "If we're going to work together, I should at least know your name."

She hesitated for half a beat, then gave a small, smile.

"My name is Samantha...Samantha Rockwell."

My eyebrow arched. "Are you perhaps—"

"Yes," she said, cutting me off before I could finish. "I'm Senator Rockwell's daughter." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "And yes, I know you're the one who killed him."

My expression soured. She didn't look angry—not even shaken.

Facing the man who killed her own father should have filled her with fury. Yet she sat there, composed, almost… detached.

"Mr. Mercer," she trailed off, as if reading my thoughts, "you don't have to worry. No one knows about this aside from me."

That didn't help.

"And even if I spoke up," she continued, "no one would believe me. I have no evidence."

I stared at her, searching for the lie. Found none.

"You're oddly accepting," I said. "Most people would at least pretend to hate me."

She lowered her gaze for a moment. "Hate requires the luxury of ignorance."

Then she looked back up.

"I know exactly who my father was," she said. "And I know what kind of future he was dragging the world toward. You didn't end a good man, Mr. Mercer. You ended a virus."

"That doesn't mean it didn't hurt," she added quietly. "It just means I won't let my pain decide the future."

I exhaled slowly. "You're telling me this not to threaten me… but to clear the air."

"Yes," she replied. "Secrets rot partnerships. I don't intend to build ours on one."

For a long moment, I said nothing.

Then I nodded once. "Fair."

Her shoulders relaxed—just a little.

"And for what it's worth, if you ever decide to hate me for it… I won't stop you."

A faint, sad voice resounded beneath the veil. "I know."

The words lingered between us, heavy and unresolved—but neither of us pressed further.

Gradually, the atmosphere changed.

We ended up exchanging information, one topic transitioning into the next.

To my surprise, she spoke freely about what she knew of DARKNESS—far more than I expected.

And none of it was good.

Their plan was real. Not a rumor. Not paranoia.

A coordinated operation already in motion for decades. If left unchecked, it would push the world past the point of recovery within a year.

"What do I need to do?" I inquired.

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