watching over them.
Now I sit on the balcony of my secure Midtown penthouse, gazing across the Atlanta skyline.
I have found a true, honorable father figure in Colonel Johnson, who checks on me every day.
As my phone lights up with a notification showing Marcus begging for prison commissary money from his cell, I calmly slide the power switch off, take a slow sip of my vintage Cabernet, and finally settle into the sweet, silent warmth of complete freedom.
