The more everyone argued, the more America could feel that burning, radioactive heat in his gut. It drove at him, begged to be used, whispering how simple it would be to silence the dissent around him.

Clenching his fists beneath the table, he forced that insidious temptation away.

The whisper frightened him. It hadn't started speaking until he had wielded it against another nation, used it to inflict pain and suffering.

He regretted the pain and suffering that came after — but he did not, would not, regret the act itself.

He refused to be so cowardly.

Decades later, he remained in control of this power, continued to ignore the seductive whisper of nuclear might, and thus the world remained whole.

There was no way of knowing, though, if others would hear this voice, would feel this power so…intimately.

He had paid a price for this power, a price more burdensome than anyone realized.

He didn't want anyone else to be so tormented.

He didn't want anyone else to lie awake at night fighting the voice that promised an easy, permanent solution.

And so, he forced the power back, never giving in to it and never sharing its existence with anyone.

Few trusted him as it was — how quickly would that fear turn to terror if they knew the tightrope he walked every day?

And how horrific a world would it be if others started to hear these whispers?

He couldn't risk that.