I do not mind being a villain in your story. Let the pages call me wicked, cruel, the darkness you fear.
For you are a clown in mine, juggling lies and hollow gestures, a spectacle that entertains no one but yourself.
I do not mind being a witch in your story either. Call me what you will, label me, mock me, paint me as the nightmare you dread.
For you are a puppet on a string in mine, dancing to your own foolishness while thinking the world bends to your whim.
Whatever you throw at me returns—tenfold, precise, inevitable. Whatever malice you craft in secret boomerangs straight back to you.
Do not curse at me. Do not spit your envy in my direction. Karma, that quiet and relentless force, will handle it.
I am patient. I am quiet. I am the eye of the storm you never see coming, the calm that hides the coming reckoning.
Your insults, your whispers, your envy—they are nothing but echoes in a cavern where I am the only presence that matters.
I do not need your approval. I do not need your applause. I am the story you cannot control, the narrative that refuses to bend beneath your lies.
I do not fight for recognition, nor for revenge. I fight for myself, for clarity, for the elegance of knowing who I am.
I smile quietly, the smirk of inevitability curling at the corners of my lips—not joy, not malice, but the knowledge that all will be revealed in time.
Your clownish antics amuse me. They teach me. They show me exactly what I refuse to be.
I watch. I measure. I allow your poison to linger, heavy in the air, before it returns to its sender, multiplied.
I am the shadow in the corners of your mind, the whisper behind your shoulder, the echo of your conscience you pretend not to hear.
You think you control fate? You think you can shape reality with your small hands? I move with a purpose you cannot see.
Do not curse me. Your spells are weak, your intent hollow. The universe bends to justice, not your malice.
Each curse you cast returns, multiplied, as if the heavens themselves are laughing at your hubris.
I am the calm before the storm, the smirk on lips that no one dares cross, the patient force that watches while the world collapses around fools.
I do not bend for comfort. I do not bow for approval. I do not soil my hands with the dirt of your envy.
I am the shadow that lingers long after the laughter has died, the quiet storm no one notices until it is too late.
You will continue to juggle your lies, but I have no hand in your tricks. I watch, calculating, waiting, knowing the weight of your deceit will fall.
I do not chase closure. I do not demand apology. I do not wait for recognition from those who will never understand me.
I am soft-spoken. I am still. I am deliberate. Every glance, every silence, every smirk is a choice, a lesson, a warning.
You can label me villain, demon, witch, misfit—whatever suits your fear. I embrace it. It is freedom, not condemnation.
For in your story, I am the nightmare you cannot escape. In mine, you are a farce, a folly, a reminder of how easily truth can be hidden beneath laughter.
You dance on stages built from arrogance, thinking the world applauds. I watch, silent, noting every stumble, every misstep.
I do not need to fight. I do not need to argue. I do not need to explain. My life, my path, my peace—they exist beyond your reach.
Your strings are tangled. Your puppetry fails. I do not pull them—you do, unknowingly, against yourself.
Let them whisper about me in fear or disgust; I am already beyond the reach of their petty judgments.
I am the storm that passes quietly, leaving ruin unnoticed until it is too late.
Your envy is a candle. I am the wind. You burn yourself while I watch, untouched.
I am patient. I am deliberate. I let your malice collect, weigh, and return to you exactly where it belongs.
I am soft-spoken, but my silence is a weapon. My calm is a force. My smirk is a reminder that every action comes with consequence.
I am the quiet inevitability, the reckoning you refused to see, the shadow that never leaves.
Call me villain, witch, misfit, storm—I do not mind. I am free. I am unshakable. I am untouchable.
You are the clown, the puppet, the fool, and yet you strut like a king, blind to the truths you cannot see.
I do not mind. Let the story paint me dark, let it whisper my name in fear. I am the calm, the storm, the shadow, and the smirk waiting at the edge of your world.
And in the end, every curse you cast, every malice you harbor, every string you pull—it finds its home, tenfold, in the story that is yours alone.