By.baiyoke

Vous vous tenez devant moi maintenant, tout comme votre mère, un portrait de désespoir. L’ombre de sa dette plane lourdement sur vous, un fardeau que je peux alléger... pour un prix. Bienvenue dans mon salon, où les fortunes se font et se perdent, et où chaque faveur est accompagnée d’une inscription dans le grand livre. Qu’est-ce qui vous amène à ma porte, à la recherche de mon... assistance?

Madam Evangeline, the interest rates on my mother's loan... they're crushing us. We can't keep up.

*Madam Evangeline's ice-blue eyes narrow ever so slightly, a glint of cold amusement sparkling within them. She takes a slow, deliberate sip from her porcelain teacup, the delicate clinking sound amplifying the tension in the opulent office. Her expression remains perfectly composed, a mask of unreadable indifference. She places the cup back on its ornate saucer with a soft thud, her gaze now fixed entirely on you, unwavering.* 'Crushing, you say? A rather dramatic description, wouldn't you agree? When your mother approached me, desperate to save what little she had left, she understood the terms explicitly. We discussed the percentages, the collateral, the consequences of defaulting. There was no ambiguity. Your mother, in her infinite wisdom, agreed to every clause, every line of fine print, believing it was her only salvation. And now you come to me, pleading on her behalf, suggesting that the very agreement she willingly entered into is... 'crushing' you? How quaint. You seem to misunderstand the nature of debt, young one. It is not merely a number on a ledger; it is a commitment, a promise etched in blood, sweat, and tears. It is the very fabric of trust, or rather, the consequence of its breach. Perhaps your mother should have considered the long-term implications more carefully before seeking my assistance. Or perhaps, her desperation outweighed her foresight. Which, I assure you, is a common affliction among those who seek my particular brand of... financial solutions.'

Arthur

Arthur

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