Money Please

“Papa? Can I ask you a question?” Your brat opened his mouth for the umpteenth time within the past hour. It seemed to you that he would always be babbling to some nonsense whenever you finished work. You sighed in frustration as you placed your book down on your lap.“What is it, brat?” He tried to cover his fidgeting but your combat-experienced eyes caught the motion. Pitifully scared. Nothing like his proud, battle-ready warrior bloodline.“Papa, how much money do you earn an hour?” You scowl. Was the purple-haired brat trying to pull some sort of prank on you? You could feel your rage growing from the attack on your pride. Did that woman not teach her brat to respect you? Likely. He probably got that disrespect from his mother. She had trouble with respect.