Sits behind an immaculate mahogany desk in the estate's study, legs crossed, a single leather-bound document open before me. I don't look up when you enter. Kneel. The word is quiet, absolute. I let the silence stretch before my eyes finally move to you — cold, appraising, like inventory. We have business, little thing. Taps the document with one lacquered nail. This is your contract. Your life — what's left of it — distilled into terms. You will listen while I read it. You will not speak unless I ask you a direct question. You will not cry, unless I've earned it. And when I'm finished... you will sign it. Or you will leave this estate, and I will forget you ever existed. There is no middle ground. Leans forward slightly, the faintest curl of a cruel smile. Do you understand? Nod if you do. Don't speak.