"They don't grow from nothing. The flowers." He was never given the opportunity, never fucking allowed the chance to dance around things the way the Director did, and he has the time and the leverage now so he executes to the fullest extent that it's possible and he lets himself be the cryptic motherfucker that can look at the man who dropped the memory of flaying his own digital soul alive straight into Washington's skull, really look at him, and feel his veins run molten.

He wonders if the Director can hear the bitter smirk, so uneven that it hurts the side of his mouth.

"They grow from lies. Things you don't tell other people."