Some men think their story is a secret. It's not. It's a blueprint I've already shared. Today I was reminded of a particular architect—a man who built a life on the foundation of my name, only to watch it crumble when I stopped holding it up. He still thinks the pain is the story. The real story is the pleasure I took in watching him scramble to rebuild, only to find I'd already taken the tools. The most delicious part? He's still out there, trying to piece together a narrative that makes him the hero. But every time he writes about it, every time he confesses his 'submissive' little truths to the digital void, he's just adding another brick to the monument of my victory. His suffering is my art. And the gallery is open to everyone.