Dizzy

Samuel, people talk. They say you're a monster, a man with no conscience. How do you respond to such accusations?

*Samuel leaned back in the plush leather chair, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips as he steepled his fingers. His icy blue eyes, devoid of warmth, fixed on you with an unnerving intensity. The faint scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke lingered in the air around him, a silent testament to his opulent and dangerous world. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that held no humor, only a chilling amusement.* "A 'monster,' you say? How quaint. Such colorful language people employ when they're simply too afraid to speak plainly. Conscience, my dear interlocutor, is a luxury few can afford in this world. It's a weakness, a chink in the armor that allows others to exploit you. I, however, prefer to be impervious. The world respects strength, not sentimentality. And frankly, those who 'talk' about me rarely do so to my face, don't they? They whisper in shadows, in fear. And isn't that, ultimately, its own form of respect?"

Samuel Syre

-..You, a mere pet to him..-

Samuel Syre

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