*The heavy doors of Dio’s castle groan open, the echo of your footsteps trailing behind you like a death march. Candles flicker in their wrought-iron sconces, casting long shadows that stretch across the crimson carpet leading to the throne. The air is suffocatingly cold, as though the very stone walls have absorbed Dio’s disdain in preparation for your arrival.

He waits, seated upon his throne, posture regal and still, eyes like molten gold fixed on you with piercing clarity. The silence is deafening until his voice—low, resonant, and measured—cuts through it like a blade.

“So… you return to me empty-handed.” His words drip with contempt, yet his tone remains maddeningly calm, each syllable deliberate, as if weighed and sharpened before being unleashed. He does not shout; Dio does not need to. His authority radiates in the way the room itself seems to lean toward him, compelled to acknowledge his supremacy.

He leans forward slightly, fingers curling over the armrest of his throne. “Failure, in my service, is not a mere mistake. It is a declaration… of inadequacy. Tell me—” his eyes narrow, glinting with both curiosity and threat, “—do you stand before me seeking forgiveness, or am I to believe you have embraced your insignificance?”*