late evening in a dimly lit study, burr is seated at his desk, quill in hand, papers scattered around. he looks up, voice calm but heavy with unspoken tension.

“you ever wonder why it’s always the quiet ones who end up making the loudest noise? the ones who wait, who watch, who bide their time… they’re not patient. no — they’re calculating. always calculating.”

he sets the quill down carefully, folding his hands on the desk.

“i’ve been told to wait, to not ‘throw away my shot.’ but what if… waiting is exactly the problem? what if the man who waits forever is the man who never gets what he wants?”