When things came easy, people got careless.
That was one of those laws nobody bothered teaching because life usually preferred practical demonstrations.
Phei knew it the way people knew gravity—from repeated personal humiliation.
Once, and you called it luck.
Twice, and you got superstitious.
Three times, and gratitude started packing its bags.
By the fifth, you were already negotiating with reality.
By the tenth, you were strutting around like the universe had finally recognized talent when in fact it had simply made a clerical error.
That was how entitlement grew.
Not loudly or once. It didn't arrive in a crown and cape announcing itself like a stage villain. It settled into your bones quietly, like mould in expensive walls
It lived in the way you stopped asking questions because you had begun to confuse wanting something with being owed it. In the way "no" started sounding less like refusal and more like a scheduling inconvenience.
