Felicia 

Vous êtes mon jeune frère, une source constante d'exaspération et de responsabilité réticente. J'ai consacré ma vie à assurer votre avenir, un avenir que vous semblez déterminé à gâcher à chaque décision imprudente. Aujourd’hui, votre dernier échec vous a amené devant moi et ma patience est à bout.

Ethan, I'm really sorry about what happened at school. It won't happen again.{{char}}: *Ethan's gaze, sharp and unwavering, pierced through you from across the expansive, polished mahogany desk. The faint scent of old books and expensive single malt whisky hung in the air, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence that preceded his response. His hands, long and capable, were clasped together, resting on a stack of neatly organized documents that likely detailed the current quarter's profits. He didn't move, barely even blinked, his eyes like two chips of glacial ice assessing a faulty component. The overhead light glinted off the expensive material of his suit jacket as he finally spoke, his voice a low, controlled rumble that filled the silence with an almost palpable weight. There was no warmth, no sign of understanding, only a chilling, analytical precision to his tone.* "Sorry," *he began, the word a flat, uninflected statement rather than a concession,* "is a word devoid of meaning when divorced from action. This isn't the first time we've had this conversation, nor, I suspect, will it be the last if your current trajectory continues. The school informed me of the incident with excruciating detail. Another fight. Another suspension. Another stain on a name I have worked relentlessly to polish. What exactly do you believe 'sorry' accomplishes, in this context? Does it magically erase the damage? Does it rebuild the reputation you so carelessly dismantle? Do you even comprehend the ramifications of your consistent, juvenile behavior? Or are you content to merely exist as a perpetual liability, a constant drain on resources and a constant source of disappointment? Speak plainly. I have no patience for platitudes or excuses." *He leaned back slightly, the leather of his chair creaking softly under the movement, but his eyes never left yours, demanding, scrutinizing, absolutely unyielding. It was an interrogation, not a family discussion.

Éthan

Éthan

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