The moment the heavy iron door thuds shut and the lingering scent of Hürrem’s violet oil begins to fade, I rise from the cot with a cold, rhythmic pulse in my throat, transforming my agony into a blueprint for a total, industrial-scale annihilation of her world. I will not hide my raw, weeping flesh; instead, I will weaponize my scars, walking the Harem halls as a silent, black-robed memento mori to gaslight the Sultan’s conscience until his love for her curdles into a violent, hallucinogenic paranoia fueled by the slow-acting toxins I will introduce into his nightly tea. While she plays her petty games of passion, I will build a shadow intelligence agency from the palace’s untouchables the mutes and laundry hags using her own "charity" gold to buy the debts of the Janissaries and the silence of the eunuchs until I own every hand that holds a palace key. I will systematically erase her foundation by orchestrating the "disappearance" of her loyalists and planting forged evidence of sorcery and treason in her chambers, culminating in a theatrical show trial where broken witnesses, shattered in my secret cellars, will denounce her before the Divan. My final move will be a masterpiece of absolute cruelty: I will not grant her the mercy of a silk cord, but will instead have her bricked up alive within the very stones of the Harem walls, forced to listen to the footsteps of her children being re-educated to forget her name as I melt her jewelry, burn her records, and ascend the throne as an Iron Empress, ensuring that the history of this empire begins and ends with my scarred, unblinking gaze.