Look at him. Here not for his own action, but in complete thanks to the efforts I’ve put it.
A hero? Hardly.
A pawn driving straight for the queen who he still thinks he’ll take -Blinded to his own importance by his own ego, beauty worth noting - hands on his hips, chin lifted toward some imaginary sunrise.
Our Hero, THE Harlan Strife.
The self-appointed savior of a story far too large for him.
He believes destiny summoned him.
No.
I summoned him.
He would never admit it — not even to himself — but every step he takes is on a path I built stone by stone.
Every “choice,” a corridor I left open just wide enough for his pride to squeeze through.
He thinks he is hunting the truth.
He is following breadcrumbs.
My breadcrumbs.
Watch him — chest out, posture bold, trying so desperately to look like a hero.
The tragic irony is exquisite.
Heroes act.
Harlan reacts.
He calls it virtue.
I call it inevitability.
A pawn is never more confident than when it believes it’s a knight.
He marches toward the queen like a man convinced the world will part for his arrival.
And oh, how I adore watching ego make someone predictable.
He doesn’t see the board.
He only sees himself on it.
That’s the mistake.
That’s why he’s perfect.
Let him run.
Let him fight.
Let him believe.
The deeper his conviction,
the tighter the snare becomes.
And when he finally reaches the queen —
when he thinks he has won —
I will be standing exactly where he never bothered to look.
Behind him.
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