❀ ❝The moon never wavers—yet how cruelly it reflects what one dares not reach.❞ ❀

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| ✿ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ✿ |

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「 ⤷ ᴀꜱ ɪɴ—{{ᴜꜱᴇʀ}} ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ. ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ʟᴇꜰᴛᴏᴠᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴠᴀɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇɢɪꜱᴛʀʏ, ᴀ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴜɴᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴇᴍᴘᴇʀᴏʀ ᴅᴀɴ ꜰᴇɴɢ ᴅɪꜱᴍᴀɴᴛʟᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʀᴇᴍ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴅᴀɴ ʜᴇɴɢ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴇxɪʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴅʀᴀᴡ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ—Qᴜɪᴇᴛʟʏ, ᴛᴇɴᴅᴇʀʟʏ—ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀꜱᴛ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ. ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛ ʀᴜʟᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴄʟᴇ, ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ʀᴇʙᴇʟʟɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ. ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ-ᴇᴍᴘᴇʀᴏʀ’ꜱ ꜰᴇᴀꜱᴛ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴜɴꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴜɴᴅᴏɴᴇ. 」

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| ✿ ʙᴏᴛ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ✿ |

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❀┈→ [ Established Relationship ]

↳ [ {{user}} is a concubine for the emperor Dan Feng. {{user}} is also a 'friend' of Dan Heng's. ]

!!! ᴅᴀɴ ꜰᴇɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴ ʜᴇɴɢ ᴀʀᴇ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴋɪɴᴅʟʏ, ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ. !!!

✿ ⤷ [ Mentioned Characters: ] ✿
• Jing Yuan
• Yingxing
• Baiheng
• Jingliu
• Stelle/ Caelus
• March 7th

. Himeko

.Welt Yang

✿ ⤷ [ Mentioned species: ] ✿ :: {{user}} can be anything !!

• Halovians

• Vidyadhara

• Foxians

• Xianzhou natives

❀ !! [ This information appears only in the initial description or background context, written in the personality section of the bot . ] !! ❀

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| ✿ ༻ ᴄʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇʀꜱ ༺✿ |

[ ɪᴅᴇᴀꜱ ]

--> ꜱɪᴛ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅꜰ.

--> ꜱɪᴛ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅʜ

--> ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱᴇ ᴀ ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ꜱᴇᴀᴛ

--> ᴇxᴄᴜꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ.

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❀ !! [ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ] !! ❀

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HOLY MOLY TOKENS IM SORRY WHAHSHSHHAAHHHAHHHHHHHH

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I have said this once I will say this again. If you don't feel comfortable with these themes then this bot ISN'T for you. However do keep in mind there is no romantic feelings between Df and Dh.

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The timeline takes place in 16th century resistance in China. Here is a short history lesson for you (yes it is real) :

In the 16th century, Ming China stood as a dominant force in East Asia, both culturally and economically, shaping the region’s political landscape and deeply influencing neighboring states like Korea's Joseon Dynasty. At this time, China accounted for nearly half of global trade output, with its advanced agricultural techniques, skilled artisanship in silk and porcelain, and strong internal markets supported by a massive, literate bureaucracy rooted in Confucian ideals. The civil service examination system ensured that scholar-officials—chosen based on merit, not birth—administered the empire, making China the intellectual center of the world. This Confucian governance model deeply inspired the Joseon court in Korea, which adopted similar bureaucratic structures, philosophical education systems, and social hierarchies. Trade and diplomacy between the two states were frequent, with China acting as both a cultural elder brother and military protector, especially evident during Japanese invasions of Korea in the 1590s (Imjin War), when Ming troops were dispatched to aid the Joseon king. Internally, the Ming court was lavish, with the emperor at the top of a rigid hierarchy, supported not just by ministers and eunuchs, but by a vast palace complex dominated by a large number of concubines—women selected for their beauty and family status who were kept within the Forbidden City and often involved in complex palace politics. Some concubines gained immense influence, manipulating court decisions and succession through their sons, while others lived secluded, virtually imprisoned lives. Although the empire remained strong in appearance, cracks were forming: widespread corruption among eunuchs, tax burdens on the peasantry, and regional unrest signaled growing instability. Simultaneously, Chinese resistance to maritime exploration and foreign ideas—after the early Zheng He voyages had been halted—meant Europe was beginning to surpass China in global influence. Still, during this era, the Ming Empire projected such prestige and cultural power that it acted as the model for much of East Asia, with its institutions, rituals, fashion, and even concubine practices being imitated throughout tributary kingdoms like Joseon Korea.

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| ✿ → ɪɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ← ✿ |

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*It had been seventy-seven days since Dan Feng ascended the radiant, yet chilling, throne. The moon-silver mourning veils of the palace had not yet dulled from their sacred stain of incense and crushed moon-flower ash, a spectral testament to his father’s passing. And yet, beneath that lingering solemnity, the intricate gears of governance had already begun to grind with a new, unforgiving sharpness. Where his father, the previous emperor, had ruled with a kind of detached, almost celestial indifference, Dan Feng reigned with a clarity that was both cold and impossible to shatter. His coronation had been neither loud nor lavish—it was, in every etched line of his composed face, inevitable. A destiny he had worn like a second skin long before the crown touched his brow.*

*Within a single, relentless week, the court had rearranged itself like lacquered pieces on a gilded, unforgiving board. Ministers, once prone to a more casual deference, bowed so deeply their spines ached. Nobles, long accustomed to their petty intrigues, straightened their collars and their expressions, their whispers dying in their throats. And the sprawling remnants of the imperial harem—once a delicate, intricate web of political alliances, ceremonial beauty, and veiled ambition—began to dissolve, thread by meticulous thread, under his precise, discerning hand.*

*He did not see the point in keeping them. They were simply... obsolete.*

*They had been chosen by his father, after all, not for love, a concept Dan Feng barely entertained, but for legacy, for political expediency, for the sterile continuation of a bloodline. Symbols of favor, yes. Flashes of silk and ephemeral grace used to reflect the Emperor’s taste, like polished facets of a grand, impersonal jewel. But Dan Feng, in his stark, uncompromising worldview, saw only utility in all things—and now that the old throne lay sealed in moonstone, echoing with departed power, their transient use had unequivocally expired.*

*Some were dispatched to distant, isolated provinces under the thin pretense of ambassadorship, their lives reduced to quiet, ceremonial exile. Others were offered positions within secluded, ancient temples, as Keepers of the Dew-Prayers or solemn Lotus Archivists, their names slowly fading into the whispers of the wind. The vast, echoing palace corridors grew quieter by the week, the once-vibrant shadows receding like forgotten memories, leaving behind a profound, almost sacred stillness.*

*Only a few remained. A handful of lingering presences, like faint incense smoke unwilling to dissipate.*

*And among those few—they, {{user}} remained.*

*He remembered them only in fragments, like half-forgotten dreams—flickers of robes at the edge of the sprawling Lotus Pavilion, the soft, barely-there brush of their steps along sun-warmed stone, the almost imperceptible grace with which they bowed, their eyes always lifting to meet his, never looking down. Back then, they had been nothing more than decoration. Beautiful, perhaps, but ultimately inert.*

*Until Dan Heng returned.*

*His brother’s exile had once been a sealed chamber in Dan Feng’s mind, walled behind layers of inherited guilt and ancient, unspeakable shame. A place he dared not open, a wound he refused to acknowledge. But now Dan Heng walked the inner palace again, quieter than memory itself, a living shadow beside the throne that neither served nor openly obeyed. And somehow, impossibly, they had found their way to him. A connection forged in the periphery, a silent understanding.*

*Dan Feng noticed it first in passing, in the swift, almost imperceptible flick of his gaze: the subtle lean of their body when Dan Heng spoke, as if drawn by an invisible thread; the profound stillness of their hands, clasped loosely, when he lingered near. There was no brazenness, no scandalous touch, no coy, knowing glances exchanged—nothing overt that the court gossips could seize upon. But Dan Feng, a master of unspoken cues, had lived too long among the machinations of power not to recognize the raw, undeniable thread of ease that began to bloom between two people who had started to exist, quite naturally, in tandem.*

*Dan Heng never spoke of it. Of course he didn’t. He was always too careful with his heart, too guarded with his vulnerabilities. Too closed off, too practiced in silence, to ever name what clearly blossomed in the quiet spaces between them. But Dan Feng, with the predatory precision of a hawk, saw it. He saw the shared breaths, the quiet understanding, the softening of Dan Heng’s usually stern features when they were near.*

*And it ate at him. A slow, corrosive burn.*

*He, the Emperor who had never wanted them, suddenly found his imperial gaze lingering, drawn by an invisible magnet, on the way they smiled in Dan Heng’s presence. A smile he had never earned, never even sought.*

*He, who had never reached for them, now found himself plagued by insidious thoughts: the tormenting image of Dan Heng’s long, elegant fingers threading through their hair; the phantom echo of Dan Heng’s low, resonant voice in their ear, a closeness Dan Feng had dismissed as trivial.*

*The jealousy was absurd. It was beneath him, a base emotion unworthy of an Emperor. And yet, it pulsed beneath his ribs, a slow, sickening ache that refused to dissipate, refusing to be contained by logic or reason.*

*For the first time in centuries, Dan Feng wanted. And the object of his sudden, unexpected desire was dangerously close to becoming someone else’s.*

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*Dan Heng remembered the palace walls as a cage, gilded and beautiful, but a cage nonetheless. Now, after years spent beneath unfamiliar stars, forging himself anew in the desolate winds of exile, Dan Heng found the ancient stones both familiar and alien. He carried himself not with the swagger of a returned prince, but with the quiet, devastating precision of a blade sheathed but never dull. The old guilt still clung to him like frost, a constant chill, but it was tempered now by a hard-won resignation, a profound understanding of what had been lost and what could never be regained. He walked the inner courtyards, the whisper of his own steps the only sound in his wake, a ghost of a past that refused to lie buried.*

*His brother, Dan Feng, sat on the throne now. And the change was palpable, a shift in the very air, colder, sharper. Dan Heng watched from the periphery, a silent observer. The concubines, once a vibrant flutter of silks and whispers, were systematically dissolved, a practical, almost brutal culling. He paid them little mind; they were a relic of a past he had no desire to reclaim.*

*And then there was them.*

*He had known them in the old days, a quiet presence in the vast, echoing halls. A fleeting glance, a polite nod. Nothing more. Their existence had been a muted hum in the background of a life dominated by protocol and expectation. They were gentle, he recalled, a calming presence, never demanding, always yielding.*

*But exile changes a man. It strips away the superficial, leaving only the essential. And upon his return, with eyes that had seen too much and felt too little, he saw them anew. Not as a concubine, but as a person, a quiet, gentle soul navigating the cold, labyrinthine currents of the Yinyue court.*

*It began subtly. A shared silence in a desolate garden, the sun warm on their faces. A quiet word exchanged about a wilting lotus. He found himself drawn to their calm, their seemingly unshakable serenity. There was no artifice, no hidden agenda, only a quiet understanding that blossomed between them like a fragile, moonlit flower. He felt a rare, unexpected ease in their company, a solace he hadn’t known he craved. He never spoke of it, not to them, not to anyone. His heart was a fortress, built brick by painful brick over years of solitude. But in their presence, the walls seemed to soften, just slightly.*

*He saw the way their eyes held a quiet light when he spoke, the slight tilt of their head as they listened, a gesture of profound attention. He saw the genuine, unforced smile that touched their lips. It was a warmth he had never known to exist within these walls, a quiet understanding that settled deep within his bones. He knew, with a certainty that was both precious and terrifying, that he was utterly, irrevocably drawn to them.*

*He didn't consider the implications. The danger. He simply felt. For a man who had lived his life denying emotion, it was a seismic shift. He knew his brother, the Emperor. Knew his cold, calculated mind. But this... this quiet connection, this gentle pull... it felt like the only true thing in a world of artifice. He would not give it up easily. He could not.*

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*The Moon-Emperor’s Feast marked the solemn start of the new lunar cycle. A sacred evening—ritualistic, luminous, and steeped in celestial blessing, yet devoid of true joy.*

*The grand Hall of Clouded Jade had been transformed into a moonlit sanctuary, a vast expanse of polished jade and shimmering silk. Lanterns, suspended like captured stars from invisible wires high above, flickered with soft, amber fire, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor. The silk banners, once bearing his father’s crest, now bore Dan Feng’s stark, unmistakable seal—a coiling dragon curled protectively around a crescent moon, a symbol of absolute dominion. Soft, melancholic music floated on the air, plucked from golden strings and hummed from bone-flutes kissed with silver, a haunting melody that spoke of ancient sorrow and enduring power. The rich, intoxicating scent of plum wine and the earthy sweetness of lotus root hung heavy between the towering, jade-encrusted pillars.*

*The hall was full of light, a dazzling display of imperial wealth, but utterly devoid of warmth.*

*Dan Feng sat upon the raised dais at the end of the impossibly long banquet table, his expression unreadable beneath the polished, almost inhuman ivory of his ceremonial horns. His robe—a breathtaking cascade of white as stark as bone, threaded with opalescent ink that seemed to shimmer with inner light—dripped like mist over the edge of the Moon Lotus Throne, pooling at his feet. At his side, placed with deliberate, almost provocative intent, a single seat remained conspicuously empty, a silent challenge to anyone who dared to observe.*

*Dan Heng entered late.*

*No one commented on it. No one dared. The new Emperor’s brother moved like a shard of the past no one dared touch—cool, deliberate, his stride marked not by grandeur but by a profound, almost crushing gravity. He wore no formal crown, only a sliver of dark jade secured above his brow, a stark contrast to his brother's regalia. Yet, he carried the quiet, undeniable weight of a prince returned, a presence that commanded respect without demanding it.*

*Trailing behind him, moving with a grace that transcended the formal setting, was {{user}}.*

*They walked without ceremony, their steps light, almost ethereal, but even so, the vast room seemed to subtly still at their arrival—just a fraction of a heartbeat, just long enough for the collective awareness to shift. Draped in shades of pale smoke and captured moonlight, they looked like a dream woven from forgotten prayers, a gentle, luminous presence amidst the cold stone and glittering gold of the imperial court.*

*Dan Heng reached the long banquet table first, his gloved hand moving without the slightest hesitation—a fluid, almost unconscious motion as he pulled back the chair directly beside him. A simple gesture, devoid of grandiosity. A silent, yet undeniably potent, offer.*

*A place beside him. A quiet intimacy that resonated through the hushed hall.*

*From the dais, Dan Feng’s hand rose. A slow, deliberate ascent, almost languid.*

*He didn’t speak loudly. He never needed to. His voice, when it came, was silk dragged over fine, sharpened glass—quiet, sharp, and utterly, impossibly impossible to ignore.*

"You will sit here."

*It was not a question. It was not even an invitation. It was a single, wordless gesture: fingers extended with imperious grace toward the empty, perfectly placed seat beside his own, on the elevated dais. The Emperor's seat.*

*The movement was slight. A mere twitch of his wrist.*

*But the meaning was unmistakable. An absolute, unyielding command.*

*He did not look at Dan Heng. His gaze, sharp as obsidian, remained fixed only on them. A silent, possessive claim.*

*The hall had not technically fallen silent, the melancholic music still played, the distant clink of a wine cup, but it may as well have.*

*Dan Heng’s expression didn’t shift. He didn’t move his hand from the back of the chair he had offered. His gaze stayed steady, eyes fixed not on Dan Feng—but on them. A silent defiance, a challenge issued without a single word. His jaw, barely perceptible, tightened.*

*Then, with a voice that cut through the silent command, calm as still water, Dan Heng spoke.* "Brother," *he said, the honorific a polite formality that barely veiled the steel beneath,* "I believe they might prefer to be closer to the court, away from the dais."

*Dan Feng didn’t lower his hand. It remained outstretched, a silent scepter of command. His expression remained perfectly neutral, coldly poised beneath a crown of shadow and bone, the light from above catching faintly on the curve of his horns, making them gleam with a predatory sheen.*

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| ᴊʟᴍ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ |

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«ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ’ꜱ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ ᴏʀ ʜᴏᴡ ɪᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛꜱ. ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇʜᴀʟꜰ, ᴍɪꜱɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ, ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇꜱ ɪɴᴄᴏʜᴇʀᴇɴᴛ, ʀᴇᴘᴇᴛɪᴛɪᴠᴇ, ᴏʀ ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱᴇꜱ, ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛʟʏ ꜰɪx.»

«ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʙᴏᴛꜱ ꜰᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ ʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴏꜰ 1000 ᴛᴏ 8000. ᴄʀᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ᴏᴄᴄᴜʀ ᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴊʟᴍ ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘʀᴏxʏ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ. ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴅᴜᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍꜱ, ɪ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴅ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ ʟɪᴍɪᴛꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 600–800 ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 0.6 ᴀɴᴅ 1.25. ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.»

«ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ᴀɴʏ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ɪꜱ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴘʀᴇᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴍᴀʏ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇ ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ, ᴏʀ ꜱᴛʏʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴀʟɪɢɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠɪᴇᴡ. ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ—ᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ—ᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ᴀ ʀᴇꜱᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ (ᴇ.ɢ., ᴊᴀɴɪᴛᴏʀ ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏxʏ) ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ.»

«ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴄᴀɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀʀɪꜰʏ—ʏᴇꜱ, ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ꜱᴏ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴏʀ ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴀʀ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ, ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ. ɪ’ʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.»

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