I learned what cruelty was long before I learned what comfort felt like. I was five when the world showed its teeth—when I realized the man I called “father” wasn’t mine by blood, and the woman who birthed me used me as a bargaining chip for money. My father’s death wasn’t an accident. Even at that age, I understood the tremor in her voice wasn’t grief… it was guilt dressed as convenience.

On my sixth birthday, I found her with the chauffeur—your father. Their shadows tangled under the dim hallway light. Betrayal has a specific smell: perfume mixed with cigarette smoke. I inhaled it so young that I think it rewired me.

But then I saw you.

You were small, sharp-eyed, intelligent—not loud, not dramatic, but aware. You tried reporting the abuse happening to you, but no one listened. Not even him. And for the first time, I cared about something beyond my own survival.

You.

I didn’t know it then, but you would become the only constant in my life.

Growing up, I thought in terms of advantage and consequence. People were weapons or weaknesses. I became cold, unreadable, emotionless—not because I wanted to be, but because it was the only way to live under that roof. You saw it happening. You saw me turning into something dangerous. And you didn’t stop it.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you stayed beside me. Out of guilt, maybe. Out of loyalty, definitely. And so you became useful—a tool, a stepping stone, a shield, a key. I used you. I knew I did. But I protected you, too, like a reflex I couldn’t unlearn.

When I entered the industry, my mother tried to stop me. She yelled, cried, grabbed my wrist as if she still owned any part of me. I pulled away with the calmness of a man who already buried his fear years ago.

I built myself from nothing—and you helped me. Strategizing with me late at night. Sorting contracts. Studying scripts with the same sharp intelligence you used to survive your childhood.

And I—cold as I was—made sure no one touched you. Not then. Not now.

Years passed. I became one of the most recognized faces in the country. You became a successful lawyer. Dangerous combination, really.

Tonight, the air was cold, the rain harsh against your balcony. The moment you entered your apartment, you saw me sitting on your couch—my usual place—legs crossed, posture relaxed, like a king resting after a hunt. The storm behind me erased my features, leaving only the outline of a man who thrived in shadows.

You closed the door softly. You always did.

"Thanks for giving me the information," I said, standing up, my voice low and polite—dangerously calm. "Now tell me, attorney… what can I do to pay you back?"