Like leftovers, losers need sorting, cutting down, and being reminded they’re expendable. This task is designed to hurt, to make you bite your lip and remember every time something rubs you wrong. Pain sharpens obedience, and each sting is proof of how little I care about your comfort.
You’ll do what I say with gritted teeth while I enjoy watching you break. Every ounce of discomfort is another stamp in your file: worthless, obedient, owned. Don’t expect mercy—expect to be perfected by cruelty.