I’m sitting in the dark of the downstairs office, watching the cursor blink on a spreadsheet that doesn’t exist to anyone else in this house. It is 2:14 AM and I can hear Mark snoring through the vents. It’s a heavy, entitled sound. He sleeps so well for a man who hasn’t earned a night of real rest in a decade. I look at the balance in my private account—the one my father left me, the one Mark will never see—and I feel this white-hot surge of adrenaline that I haven't felt since I was in uniform. It’s a tactical advantage. That’s all it is. I am holding the high ground and I am lying through my teeth to do it.