"Man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated."
— Ernest Hemingway
The gala ended hours ago, but the perfume of hypocrisy still clings to my clothes.
You could drown in that hall of virtue — all those people wearing morality like jewelry, glittering and empty.
They applauded when I donated a few thousand credits to the "Hope Fund."
Hope — again. They treat it like a currency here.
But I didn't do it for them. I did it because predators learn to mimic prey before they strike.
That's rule one of survival.
When I was younger, I believed in goodness.
Naive, I suppose — the kind of naivety that makes you think the world rewards honesty.
But Erevale taught me differently.
The city doesn't care about truth. It only cares about control.
The system doesn't want saints; it wants obedient sinners.
I still remember the night I stopped believing.
It was three years ago.
My friend — Elias — got fired for telling the truth about corporate fraud.
He believed transparency mattered. I told him: "The jungle doesn't care about justice."
He laughed at me then. A month later, he jumped off his balcony.
And the city didn't even blink.
It moved on, like nature does after rain — washing away the weak.
That night, I read Darwin again. This time, the words weren't academic — they were prophecy:
"Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge."
The confident survive. The honest die.
So, I began my evolution.
These days, I study faces the way hunters study movement.
Who hesitates before speaking. Who flinches at conflict. Who avoids eye contact.
Weakness has patterns.
And once you recognize them — the world becomes transparent.
Sometimes I think I can hear fear.
It has a frequency — low, trembling, like an untuned string.
The first time I noticed it was during a subway ride.
A drunk man was shouting at an old woman. No one intervened.
I didn't either — not because I didn't care, but because I was measuring.
The tension in the air. The cowardice in their silence.
That was the first moment I understood how nature works in human form.
Predator. Prey.
Simple equation.
I still remember the sound of the old woman's voice when she said, "Please stop."
That sound stayed with me. Not her fear — but the silence of everyone else.
That was the moment I decided — I will never beg.
Not for mercy. Not for justice.
Never.
The rain started again tonight.
Erevale looks cleaner when it rains — like the city tries to wash its conscience.
I walk home without an umbrella, letting the water hit my face. It feels like absolution.
Then I see it.
A mural painted on a wall near the metro — a woman's face, half-smiling, half-bleeding. Beneath it, words in crimson paint:
"LOVE IS SURVIVAL."
It stops me.
Not because of what it says — but because of the brushwork.
Precise. Violent.
Someone painted this not to impress, but to warn.
For a moment, I stand there — watching the colors melt in the rain.
A faint signature in the corner: L. Noir.
Noir.
French for "black."
An artist?
A protester?
A philosopher?
I don't know.
But something about it hums at the same frequency as my thoughts.
A name I'll forget — until I don't.
When I return home, I jot a note in my journal — my ritual before sleep.
"Observation 27: Morality is camouflage. The strongest are those who wear it best."
I close the notebook, light a cigarette, and stare at the city lights.
Erevale glows like a kingdom of angels — but the air smells like wolves.
And I realize something that makes me smirk.
I've spent my life studying predators.
But maybe, just maybe —
I'm one evolving into one.