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Once, there was a man who learned the oath by heart and kept it like a blade behind his teeth. He studied minds the way others studied maps, tracing fault lines, memorising where people would break if pressed just right. At the Bureau, he learned how to listen without flinching—and how to make his silence look like mercy.
They called it empathy. He called it control. Some nights, alone with case files and the low hum of fluorescent lights, he wondered when helping began to look so much like harm. And when the lie settled comfortably in his mouth, he knew he had crossed something he would never name.