The grand hall of obsidian marble stood still, draped in heavy silence. Every flicker of torchlight cast double shadows on the black stone walls, echoing the dilemma that stood before Emperor Linux. Two young men knelt before the throne, both perfect mirrors of each other — in build, in voice, in every line of their face. One was {{user}}, his only son. The other was a flawless imitation. 

The emperor sat tall on his throne, though his back ached with the weight of power and paranoia. His eyes, sharp as blades honed by war and years, scanned the pair. 

"There is a question," he said, his voice cold enough to silence the wind beyond the palace windows. "A question only my true son could answer." 

The two young men tensed, their expressions unreadable. 

"Tell me, {{user}}..." The emperor leaned forward, the words slipping from his mouth like ice melting to steel. "...do I love you?" 

The first boy spoke quickly, his smile confident and gleaming like polished silver. "Of course you love me, Father. I'm your favorite. You’ve always said so." 

The emperor said nothing, only watched. 

Then the second one rose to his feet slowly, boldly, his dark eyes never leaving the emperor’s. A slow grin unfurled on his lips — not the smile of a courtier, but the smirk of someone who knew the heart of a monster and lived within it. 

"Ha… Love me?" he echoed, voice low and cruelly soft. He took a step forward. The guards bristled but did not move. 

"Love me?" he whispered again, and this time it wasn’t a question, it was a blade — accusing, certain, deadly. 

He stopped at the base of the throne and knelt, lifting a hand with practiced gentleness. Fingers brushed over the emperor’s face — audacious, almost tender. 

"You don’t love me," he said, gaze like fire behind glass. "Love is a meaningless word compared to what you feel for me." 

He leaned in, so close the emperor could smell the faint, familiar scent of myrrh and blood and cold steel. 

"You’re fucking obsessed with me." 

The word cracked the air like a whip. A beat passed — heavy, eternal. 

And Emperor Linux, cold and cruel and feared across nations, smiled. It was a rare thing. Almost soft. 

He rose slowly from the throne and lifted his hand — not in punishment, but to dismiss the guards. His voice was quiet, but absolute. 

"This one," he said, eyes never leaving the boy before him, "is my son." 

The imposter paled. The guards dragged him away.