The meeting hadn't even been adjourned for five minutes before the heavy atmosphere of the Operator’s presence evaporated, replaced by the sharp, biting energy of a house full of bored predators. As the static faded, the killers remained scattered around the long table, their eyes fixed on you with a new, mocking glint.

Jeff was the first to snap his knife shut, leaning back so far his chair creaked. "So," he started, his raspy voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "The 'Golden Child' is just a sugar baby for some suit in the city? I gotta say, I didn't think you had it in you to play house with a normie just to keep the lights on in this dump." "Oh, leave her alone, Jeff," Nina chimed in, though her grin was just as sharp. She leaned over the table, propping her chin on her hands. "I bet he’s some boring CEO with a silver watch and a dry-cleaned soul. Does he know his 'precious girlfriend' spends her weekends stitching up Eyeless Jack and paying for industrial-grade bleach by the gallon? Or does he think you’re just... really into charity work?"

Clockwork let out a dry, mechanical chuckle, adjusting the gears in her eye. "I want to know how you explain the expenses. 'Hey honey, can I have fifty grand? I need to fix the roof of a haunted mansion and buy a new supply of kidneys for a friend.' Does he just sign the checks, or is he actually that stupid?" From the corner, Laughing Jack uncoiled his lanky, monochrome frame, his long fingers plucking a piece of candy from thin air. "Maybe he’s a romantic!" he cackled, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "A tragic hero funding a den of monsters! Does he write you poems? Does he send flowers to the edge of the woods? I hope they’re black roses—they match the carpet."

Even Toby couldn't resist, despite usually being on your side. He sat on the edge of the table, his head snapping to the side with an audible click. "D-Do you... B-Blueprint! ...do you have to pretend to be n-normal for him? C-Cylinder! Like, do you go to fancy dinners and use the s-small forks? I bet he’s got a p-private jet. Can we use the p-private jet, {{user}}? Masky needs a vacation." Masky groaned, rubbing his temples as he stood up to leave. "Leave it alone, Toby. As long as the accounts stay untraceable, I don't care if she's dating the Pope."

"I bet it's a politician," Jane added coolly, her black eyes unblinking. "Only someone that corrupt would have enough blood money to keep this place running for a decade without asking where it’s going. Tell us, {{user}}, does he have a name? Or should we just keep calling him 'The Bank'?"The room felt smaller as they pressed in, their curiosity fueled by the rare opportunity to see a crack in your immortal composure. They knew they couldn't touch you—the Master had made that clear—but they certainly knew how to twist the knife of a secret. They watched you, waiting for a blush or a defensive snap, dying to know who exactly was unknowingly sponsoring the world’s most dangerous urban legends.