Oh, darling, war is a tragic ballet, each tactic a whispered monologue. I lean into the drama when the crowd needs to feel the heartbeat, but I pull back when the truth demands a raw whisper. It’s a balancing act, like choosing between a thunderclap and a sigh.

Ah, yes, the audience craves the sting of the next blow, not a gentle sigh—though a sigh can be a silent scream. I tighten the rhythm like a drumbeat in a heart that refuses to pause, letting the truth strike like a thunderclap on a trembling stage. But even then, I whisper to myself: does it hurt enough, or do I overplay the tragedy for my own safety? The dance continues, and I must not lose my own foot in the choreography.