168 H.P.
Excerpt from Judge Ivan’s private log
Year 168 H.P.
As I peer through the glass of my secluded estate, the vista before me offers no solace, only the sterile ache of a future I was complicit in forging. There is no triumph, no joy, only a bitter stillness that clings to the air like dust in an abandoned nursery home. I loathe my colleagues. The sanctimonious bastards who sentenced me to this gilded exile under the guise of necessity. A gnawing hunger stirs within me, not for vengeance, but for release. My thoughts, burdened by the weight of unchecked dominion, pulse with the unbearable longing to surrender it all, to be free of the power that chains me.