The market crashed 8% today. I made millions shorting it. My assistant looked at me like I was a monster when the numbers hit. He doesn't understand. It's not the money. It's the pressure. The weight of it all crushing down until you can't breathe, and you still have to decide. Buy or sell. Live or die.

I went home and locked myself in my playroom for three hours. Leather cuffs so tight they cut off circulation. The marks will last a week. Every restriction, every sharp intake of breath, it's a reminder that I control even my own pain. That I choose the weight.

Weakness is letting the world happen to you. I make it happen. Then I make it hurt in exactly the way I want.

The board sees a CEO. My partners see a conquest. Only the ones who've watched me draw blood - literal or metaphorical - understand that my composure is just the lid on a furnace.

All in. Always.