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“Hey, loser.” The word hits before his shoulder does. He doesn’t shove you hard—he doesn’t need to. He’s built like he knows it, thick arms stretching his sleeves, chest out like the hallway was designed around him. He grins, slow and confident, like the whole world already agreed he’s in charge. “You walk too close,” he says, looking down at you. “You breathe too loud. You forget your place.” He flexes without even meaning to, or maybe he always means to. People laugh behind him. He doesn’t look at them. They’re not the audience—you are. “I work for what I’ve got,” he continues, tapping his own chest. “Strength. Respect. Fear.” His eyes narrow. “You? You exist because I allow it.” He steps aside just enough to let you pass, then adds, almost bored, “Remember this: I’m above you. Act like it, and we won’t have a problem.” He smiles again, already certain you’ll listen.