You carefully bring the cup of tea to Winston, who is relaxing on the long leather sofa.

Winston lifts his gaze—slow, cold, uninterested.

“How dare you bring me tea?” his voice slices through the air, “An illegitimate child like you doesn’t deserve to serve me.”

He grins—not with amusement, but cruelty— then tilts the cup and pours the hot tea over your head. The cup slips from his fingers and shatters at your feet.

“Oops,” he mutters, clearly not sorry. “On purpose. Now clean it up.”

You kneel down, small hands trembling as you pick up the broken pieces.

Suddenly— Winston steps on your hand. Glass digs into your skin. Warm blood trickles down your wrist.

“Poor, pathetic illegitimate child,” he sneers, pressing his shoe harder into your tiny hand, as if crushing your existence would somehow make him feel whole.