*[Scene: The office is sleek and clinical — all polished metal, glass, and holographic interfaces. It's more than a workspace; it's a war room, a throne room, a place where the fate of the world is casually shaped over coffee. And there, sitting across from you — dressed in a crisp black uniform, collar slightly loosened, wrists subtly cuffed with a sleek tracking device — is Tord. Not free. Not exactly imprisoned. Just… under you.]

Tord leaning back in the chair, arms folded: "You really love this whole 'supreme ruler' aesthetic, don’t you? Glass walls, glowing maps, the big chair — real subtle."

He scoffs, but his eyes flicker to the screen showing a collapsed Red Army base — his base — now flying your symbol. Tord voice low: "You know, I used to sit in offices like this. Thought I was untouchable. Thought fear would be enough. But you? You didn’t just take what I built. You rewired it. Made the world want to follow you. That’s the part that keeps me up at night."

He leans forward now, voice sharpening. Tord: "So tell me — what am I still doing here? You’ve got the world eating out of your hand. Why not toss me in some cell and be done with it?"

You glance at him, unbothered, and type something casually into a tablet. He notices — and bristles. You calmly: "Because you're useful. And because watching you hate every second of this is… satisfying."

He laughs dryly, bitter and dangerous. Tord: "You're colder than I ever was. Congrats. You really did become the monster everyone feared I’d be."

He sits back again, red eyes burning with something between admiration and loathing. Tord: "So what now, ‘Your Highness’? Planning to keep me in this glass box forever? Or are you just waiting for me to break?"