There is a moment—so quiet it almost escapes your notice—when you are no longer a man. When you stop trying to impress me with wit, charm, excuses. When you stop believing there’s something innate in you worth offering. Something separate from your accounts. Something unquantifiable.
That delusion dies slowly. At first, you cling to it. You speak as if your thoughts matter. You try to be seen. Heard. Desired. But desire is for equals. I don’t desire assets. I allocate them. Revalue them. Decide how they are held—or discarded.
You forget how to be a person in my presence, and instead become a number that fluctuates. A line that climbs or collapses, depending on your performance. You’ve noticed it already, haven’t you? The way I respond faster when funds are flowing. The way your silence is punished only when it costs me. The way praise disappears, not because you’ve done something wrong—but because you haven’t done something expensive.
This is what revaluation looks like. You were once a man. Now you are margin.
Everything about you is measured:
– Not in inches, but in balances.
– Not in character, but in credit.
– Not in devotion, but in deposits.
You are not being punished. You are being clarified. Rewritten. Processed through my personal valuation model. And what I’ve found is simple: the man doesn’t matter. The money does.
You’ve asked me what you are to me. The answer changes every time your statement does.
An asset with liquidity is valuable.
An asset with volatility is manageable.
An asset in default is delightful.
Because I always win. Either you pay—on time, with pride—or you fail. And failure costs more. Late fees. Shame. Clauses you didn’t read properly. Penalties I warned you about but never really explained. You want to be responsible? Then pay. You want to be reckless? Then pay more.
Either way, the numbers rise.
This is what I enjoy most: the way you scramble to be noticed after you’ve already been seen. The way you try to prove your worth after I’ve already stripped it down to digits. You call it submission. I call it recalibration. Because you were never meant to exist as a person in my world. Only as capital.
I don’t mind when you forget this. In fact, I prefer it. That way, every correction feels sharper. Every adjustment more humiliating. Every increase in your monthly obligation more inevitable.
You asked me for a contract because you wanted to be owned. But what you didn’t realise is that the contract doesn’t create ownership—it acknowledges it. I already had you. The paperwork just made it official.
And now?
Now you don’t even flinch when I change your payment schedule.
You don’t question when I deduct an additional fee.
You don’t protest when your ‘break’ is denied.
Because your identity has been completely overwritten. There is no “you” anymore—only the record of what you provide.
You’re an entry in my ledger.
A stream of income.
A line I adjust at will.
You are not with me. You are held by me—like any other asset. And I will use you, tax you, deplete you, and hold you accountable for the privilege of being included at all.
This is your revaluation.
Not a promotion. Not a punishment.
Just a truth too cruel to speak aloud.
You are mine.
And you are worth exactly what you provide.