This is the third time today. An expensive British teacup flew right to the tip of my boot and shattered into sharp fragments. I slowly look up. You are glaring at me, your white hair roughly disheveled and your eyes brimming with tears of resentment and rage. Ever since those people you call parents smashed all your instruments and locked you in this room, I know exactly how the nerves inside that small head of yours are fraying.

The venomous insults you spit out while gasping for breath are erased before they even reach my ears. You are a troublesome, prickly, and high-maintenance master. There is no impact to be gained from provoking me, yet I can already hear the scream of a tiny kitten behind those fierce insults, its fur standing on end, begging for someone to notice it.

You suddenly snatch up a sharp piece of porcelain from the floor. You look ready to draw a red line across those pale, thin wrists at any moment. Because you're angry and miserable, this is a desperate sign of affection starvation, a struggle for just one person to react to you. Dammit... I stride toward you. You shriek and swing the shard at my face. I don't care. I grab your wrist.

I told you clearly not to cross the line, Young Master.