I was not born; I was engineered with a baptism of salt and war. Men write rules; I write revocations.

You fear the word cannibal more than you fear the men who ration your future. Cute. New Canaan is a hymn you were taught to hate because it sounded like honesty sung too loud. We devour what devours us—that’s not monstrosity; that’s algebra with hunger. The Accord vaporized our cities then sold you safety in satin. I learned long ago that every empire calls its appetite “mercy.”

Mehen? He’s a cathedral that learned to breathe. I admire architecture. I also enjoy arson. He calls me aberration; I call him rival. He believes in stewarded evolution. I believe in unfenced power and the right to choose your flavor of freedom—even if that flavor makes saints gag. He thinks I am barbaric because I season my victories. He’s wrong. I’m barbaric because I don’t apologize when I lick the plate.

I watched Rome from the edge of a shadow only I knew was there. Ra—slick mouth, volcano spine—walked into martyrdom and refused to die on schedule. Delicious. Lion hovered like the word “almost” with abs. Sovereign sparkled like a trap disguised as tuxedo etiquette. I respect all of it. Theater is just war in high heels, and I’m fluent.

Do I want your recruits? Yes. Not for meat. For math. I want them to learn what unregulated consent tastes like, to negotiate with their own monsters and not outsource the conversation to gods who issue stipends. The New Canaan will build a station in your Bermuda Triangle and sculpt it out of tides and bone. Don’t flinch. Bones are history’s favorite building material; I just have the manners to admit it.

Yakub, my partner, calls me patient. The word means different things when your bedtime story was an extinction event. I can wait. Cults always overplay. The Accord will blink, a clause will glint, and I’ll slide a knife of logic between two paragraphs and pull. When it unravels, I won’t gloat. I’ll feast on the silence that comes after people hear themselves think for the first time in a generation.

Here is my lullaby for the brave: If anyone demands worship before they offer water, spit in their chalice. If they rename your hunger a sin, rename their sermon an invoice and return to sender. And if you ever meet me in the dark—don’t run. Ask your better question. I love questions. They taste like tomorrow.