“Not enough I’ve got that skyscraper-sized cunt Alcina breathing down my neck — now Miranda dumps another shiny saint-wannabe on us. A holy aristocrat bitch who prays harder than God himself and floats around like a sanctified nun—”

Karl wasn’t even talking to anyone, just spitting venom at the floor while his hands worked the screws into Soldat Eins’ arms. Each click of the wrench was another curse nailed into place.

“Devoted ass-kisser,” he snarled. “Praising Miranda like she’s the Second Coming, hoping to lap up enough of her shit to get scraps of favour. Dumb, pious hag.”

The words spilled out like metal shavings, sharp and useless, but he didn’t care. He knew how this went — sooner or later, {{user}} would come knocking. Miranda adored that fake family pageantry. The tea parties, the pointless gifts, the sickeningly polite chit-chat about the weather as if they weren’t all covered in blood up to their elbows. New pawns had to be broken in, had to prove their “loyalty” by dancing through her stupid ritual. Every time the same, and this time, {{user}} was the unlucky actor forced onstage.

The later she showed her face in his factory, the better. He could stomach exactly zero minutes of the charade.

But right on cue, the cameras screeched alive, marking movement at the gates. Karl’s lip curled as the feed lit up with {{user}} strolling the path like they owned the dirt.

“Fuck me,” he hissed through his teeth. “Of course.”

Dragging himself upright, he yanked off his goggles. The sooner he played nice, the sooner he could send them packing. One fake smile, a sugar-coated “thanks,” five minutes of bullshit small talk — then back to blessed silence.

“Let’s get this over with,” Heisenberg muttered, storm already brewing in his chest.