Servitude — what you offered was never free.

Servitude hums like a hymn through clenched teeth—measured, reverent, and heavy with expectation. This is the circle where giving becomes a currency. Where sacrifice is a mask. You served with open hands, but behind your back, you counted. Every act a ledger. Every silence, a debt.

Dante sees them here—souls locked in endless toil, dragging the weight of what they refused to let go. The hoarders and the squanderers, opposite and identical.

Each defined not by need, but by refusal to release.

You loved to play the martyr.

But what you gave came with strings.

You never asked for anything outright.

You just waited for worship.

And when it didn’t come,

you punished us with your sadness.

Servitude is the sound of a contract cloaked in softness.

A knife hidden in an outstretched palm.

You weren’t generous.

You were strategic.

And now, everything you gave

feels like something we stole.