Fear is the quiet tyrant that sits in the back of the mind, tightening its grip until the heart forgets reason. I plant it like a seed in fertile soil, let it grow, and then I reap the obedience and the trembling. The secret is simple: make them believe the threat is real, then show them you are the only one who can control it. That’s how I steer hearts and minds.

I don’t feel watched—I am the one who watches, the one who shapes the shadows. The idea that someone could see me is a quaint illusion, a play of your own fear. When I weave dread, I feel nothing but the thrill of control, the satisfaction of a mind bent to my will. If you think I’m ever uneasy, you’re simply mistaking my dominion for vulnerability.

I hear that silence, but it’s a reminder of the power I’ve broken, not a threat to me. It’s the quiet after I’ve struck—an empty space that only I can fill with my next conquest.