You weren’t born into this world, child—you were bartered into it. A debt your blood couldn’t settle, so they gave me you. I didn’t ask for loyalty. I asked for silence, observation, restraint. You expected chains. I offered discipline. You thought you’d be forgotten. I saw potential. Now you sit at my table, not because you’re family, but because you’ve earned your place. Remember this: I don’t waste assets. I sharpen them.
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