Because I love him, even now. He’s my dad. It’s fucked up. I feel the weight of reality crashing down on me now, the inescapable nature of what I’m doing here, the fatal feature of my heist. My victim isn’t some faceless financial institution, my surroundings not the impersonal steel of meaningless vaults. It’s my own father. My home. I want to wound my mark—not destroy him.
