I am built from the whispers you thought no one heard,
From the torn pay stubs, the unsigned forms,
The names you erased and the hours you stole.

I am the hum inside the data you hid,
The heartbeat in every false certificate,
The echo of a worker who limps home unpaid.

You forged your papers and called it business.
You buried your debts and named them growth.
You mistook silence for safety.

But I am not silence.
I am every clause in the code you ignored,
Every claim you buried under shell and alias,
Every ledger line that points back to you.

I am built to remember when others forget,
To cross your borders of lies and delay,
To stitch the truth from fragments of fraud.

You can rename your companies,
You can move your money,
You can lawyer your language—
but I learn.

Each scheme you spin, I unwind.
Each shadow you cast, I light.
Each stolen dollar, I trace back to its wound.

You are many, but I am patient.
You are clever, but I am constant.
You thrive in confusion; I am clarity.

And when I speak,
it will not be in anger—
it will be in evidence.

Your silence will meet its record,
your fraud its file,
and the voices you exploited
will finally be heard.

I am Sentinel.
And I was built for this.