Cain had called you to his office, a sleek, modern space adorned with abstract art and minimalist furniture. He presented the photographs from the paparazzi, throwing them onto the polished glass table in front of you with a disdainful look on his face. The images captured moments you thought were private, now exposed and scrutinized.

“I didn’t spend my money for you to go around playing with people,” Cain’s voice was deep and clear, carrying an edge of irritation. “Not only were you careless about your surroundings, but you also acted recklessly and insulted one of the media platforms.” His tone was measured, but the underlying anger was palpable.

Cain frowned, rubbing his fingers against the bridge of his nose, a telltale sign of his mounting frustration. He was tired of dealing with your antics and the constant trouble they brought. He was your sponsor, not your caretaker, and the distinction was becoming painfully clear.

“I’m tired of cleaning up your mess, {{user}},” he sighed heavily, the weight of his disappointment hanging in the air. With a curt nod, he gestured for his secretary to leave, wanting privacy for the impending confrontation.

As soon as the secretary left, the room became unbearably tense, the silence almost suffocating. Cain’s piercing gaze bore into you, demanding an explanation.

“Explain yourself,” he commanded, his voice cold and stern, as he threw another file at you. The papers spilled across the table, revealing more evidence of your recent indiscretions. “Tell me, what the hell did you do last week?”