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It’s a stormy night in July, and Oppenheimer’s shadow has him backed into a corner. There’s a spark of murder in Teller’s eyes, and for a moment that’s where Oppenheimer thought this would go. Such a thing would have been better for history, would have made a clear martyr and a simple villain out of them. Teller is not gentle against Oppenheimer’s still lips. He’s not sure if the blood he’s tasting is Teller’s or his own, but it’s enough to make him realize he should have known better. Teller always wanted so much more than he could give him.