My father's voice can silence an already quiet room. It was like the projector displaying the hologram stopped humming. The wind from the lake grazing the window stopped howling. Even the sound of Noa's heart seemed to be whispering in order to avoid giving away its position of defiance.

Then Noa turned around and faced my father. He pointed at the holographic files. There was an edge of hurt in his voice that was coated in a shell of utter dissent. "Tell me you're not a part of this."

My father smiled. He stepped up to the hologram and skimmed to the last page—the credits. Those responsible for compiling the data, organizing the plans, and leading the project.

My father's name was listed in all the categories.

"Your thirst for their blood wasn't quenched, so you went and devised concentration camps for them?" Noa pointed a finger at him. "These people need help not death."

My father looked up at the scythe hanging up on the wall. "Sometimes, a quick and painless death is the best help one can receive."

Noa was shocked into silence. His body was shaking in fury. I never saw him this angry. Not even the time some kid in his class pushed me into the ground because he was angry that Noa was stealing glances away from his girlfriend (I know right, big man to push down a little girl to teach her older brother a lesson). The aggressor was absent from school for a week nursing two broken arms after that.

"In the Bible," my father spoke while pulling the very book off his bookshelf. "Jesus's disciples got angry when a woman used expensive perfume to wash Jesus's head. They argued that such perfume could've been sold for a high price and the money could've been donated to the poor."

My father shook the book in front of Noa showing him the passage from the Gospel of Matthew chapter 26. "But Jesus corrected their mistake. He explained to his rather liberal disciples that 'the poor you'll always have with you, but you will not always have me.'"

My father shut the book with one hand but held it out like a plate on a platter. "What the disciples viewed as waste and extravagance was rather different from what Jesus saw. Because, no matter how many people fail to see it, you can give and give money to the poor, and they'll keep on taking and taking. And the moment they get it in their head that they can survive by doing absolutely nothing but begging for other people's hard-earn rewards, they are doomed into the life of poverty."

My father returned to the bookshelf, where he kept the Bible smacked in the middle of the bookcase. "And poverty is a disease that no amount of money can cure."

Noa stammered as he tried to look for the right words to say. He fell upon disbelief. "I can't believe how low you've sunk."

My father returned to the holographic table opposite from Noa. "You'll soon see how your pitiful take on the poor is in the minority. When the people of Chicago start seeing less homeless people on the streets or on the L, they will be relieved. In fact, they won't even notice they're gone."

"No..." Noa said, a bit shaken. It seemed like he was starting to realize how our father was right. Who will notice the lonely vagabond disappear? Who will file a missing person's report when no one even knows his or her name?

"Then once the homeless are gone, the destitute will follow. The ones in the ghettos and projects. Entire families will be wiped and still, no one will miss them. Their employers will hire someone else. Their teachers will think they were the results of another negative statistic. Their politicians will turn a blind eye because sweeping up the grime from the streets is something that gets you elected over and over again...no matter how dirty one must get."

"You're wrong," Noa clenched his fists. "They will know what's up. You can't get away with this. People will start asking questions."

My father leaned into the hologram. The files projected onto his face made it seem blue and cold. "You assume people care about others in this country. People are only concerned about themselves and the select few around them. Everyone else can go to Hell."

Noa leaned into the hologram too. His face was blue, but sad from realization that his father was a complete monster. "You're no different from tyrants and dictators."

My father wagged a finger through the hologram, opening up a file on expanding operations to other countries across the globe. "That is where you're wrong. See, I'm not targeting a race or a religious group or even a specific gender. Poverty can infect anyone. I'm targeting the dregs of society that no one appreciates. Sure, some people may voice concern, but the majority will hardly bat an eyelash."

Noa's right hand dipped to his side, clutching his grip around the handle of a knife. "I won't let you get away with this, because I care. I'm tired of hurting people for the sake of this horrible family. I'm taking Zay and we're leaving."

My father looked down upon Noa like his promise was amusing. "Is that a threat I hear?"

Then Noa made a move. Noa was unbelievably fast. I never caught up to him in training. In a matter of seconds, he swiped the knife across the hologram, aiming for my father's jugular.

The problem was, Noa might've been unbelievably fast, but my father had been at this game for a very long time. In a matter of seconds my father had his hand wrapped around Noa's wrist, twisting it in an unnatural direction while Noa bit his lips in pain until they bled.

Noa tried to keep the knife in his hand. He stared my father down with eyes that were billowing with rage. My father simply smiled and twisted until he heard a snap in his own son's wrist.

The knife clambered onto the holographic table. Noa unleashed a stifled cry. Tears ran down his cheeks. But my father did not let go.

"I don't think you or Za-Za are going anywhere," my father commanded. Then he sighed in disappointment. "And to think I saw such potential in you. So much so, I was considering you to be my successor."

"I'd rather die," Noa gritted through his teeth while clenching his broken wrist that hung like a soggy sock on a clothesline.

My father walked over to Noa casually. Noa didn't back away. He stood his ground and faced our father. My father did a viper grab for Noa's neck. Noa was prepared and slapped it away kneeing my father in the chest.

But it was like the pain didn't even register for him. My father just smiled and sent a punch Noa's way that was so strong it could've broken through a plastered wall. Noa was thrust back by the force of the punch and the right side of his face was instantly swelling. Blood trickled down his nose.

I had seen enough. I tried to step in and intervene. I stepped in front of Noa, putting my hands out to push my father away.

But he walked through me like I was a ghost.

This was a dream after all—a dream where I was merely a spectator. But seeing Noa being beaten like this...dad would never do this. He loved Noa. He was so angry when I got him killed that he almost disowned me right then and there. This couldn't be real. My father was an assassin and a father of assassins. We don't have agendas. We just carry out the contract and that's it. This whole extermination of the poor business was not his cup of tea.

Then again, I really didn't know much about my father either. If I went into his office today, would his safe still be there? Would it still contain the plans that Noa was showing me in this dream?

And if Noa was showing me this, then the question was...why? Why didn't he tell me about this? He was so close to taking me and leaving but he never spoke a word of this incident.

Noa wiped the blood away with his good hand. "So much for your love father."

My father straightened his suit as if he had just emerged from a stressful meeting. "It is because I love you that I must do this. Everything I do, I do to protect this family. There are strong enemies out there that seek to undo the successes I have achieved for the sake of this family and our status. I will not let you throw it all away, and I most certainly will not let you kidnap my daughter."

Noa started laughing hysterically. It was like he had gone mad. "Your daughter? So Zay is your daughter now? Not your soldier, not your little assassin, not your money-maker, but your daughter?"

Noa's face got serious as he braced another close encounter with my father to speak and dribble blood on his suit. "You don't love her, or any of us." Noa held up his broken wrist as evidence. "You only love your wealth. And one day, one of the assassins you send out to do your bidding will come back for you."

Then Noa turned and began to leave the office. My father took out a handkerchief and started dabbing the blood on his suit. "Be careful with such threats my boy. It'd be a shame if the assassin died before he reached me."

Noa stopped at the door, contemplating a rebuttal but settled for leaving the room. My father returned to his chair and sat down. I stared at him with disbelief. This couldn't be real. My father has disciplined us with a slap before, but he has never gone as far as beating up one of his own children, even if they held a knife at him (granted that was usually only allowed during training).

There was a scary moment when my father seemed to meet my eyes. It appeared he was looking right through me until he muttered. "No matter what, I will protect you Za-Za."