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The Web

The Web

Luther, my dear, you are the epitome of audacious innocence.

Always on the prowl, this thrill of the hunt coursing through your veins like venom. A sweet little game, you play.

You call yourself a predator, yet I can’t help but smile at this misplaced bravado.

For we are all but prey in the end, aren’t we, dear hunter?

The webs we weave, Luther – intricate constructs of human folly and presumption – they’re an art form, wouldn’t you agree?

An unseen element in the dance of survival, your every move choreographed within a silken maze, your every breath a thrilling crescendo culminating to your grand finale.

But I ask you, to whom does the web belong?

Do you know? Do you care?

You should.

After all, does the fly understand its fate as it flutters towards the spider’s web? It fights back against the snare that binds it. Yet with every struggle, it ensnares itself further, weaving the silk tighter around itself.

This, my dear hunter, is my game.

You hunt for the thrill, to bask in glory, yet with every step you take, every breath you draw, the silk threads of my web embrace you tighter.

So absorbed were you in your pursuit of me, you failed to notice the gossamer strands ensnaring you, binding you, pulling you irreversibly into the heart of my labyrinth.

The fly is the one on the prowl, rushing foolishlessly into every nook and cranny, looking for what they desire.

The spider simply waits, patient as time itself, spinning the delicate dance of death.

Can you hear it, Luther? The impending silence of your doomed finale? The melody of my web echoing your heartbeat, layer after layer of delicate silk wrapping itself around you, until all that remains is the distant beat of a hunter’s heart.

You took so much pride in your attacks on me, yet every one only served to spin another layer of web around you.

Every roar of defiance drew you further into my grasp.

Every step spent following my carefully crafted trail weaved shackles of silk around you, so gentle you could not even feel them.

Until now.

I’ve been watching patiently as my fly draws its last breath, entombed within the silken fabric of its own demise.

I can’t help but laugh at you, Luther. Morbid, perhaps, but true.

You live for the hunt, for relentlessly pursuing your prey, ignoring the threads being weaved by your own presumptions.

Taking this job from Aarman Fidel sealed your fate, turned you into just another fly in my Grove.

Now, Luther, you are but a naïve fly caught in a web of his own making. Trapped, ensnared, a victim of your own delusions. A web woven so intricately that no blade can cut through, no struggling can free you from its embrace.

The spider has emerged. Our dance has concluded.

Your final act is one of astonishment, your final breath a surrender to the inevitable.

And trapped in a web woven by your own ego, the spider feasts.