Three is balance. Three is rhythm. Tap the table, tap the vein, tap the skull. One, two, three. And down they go.
People call it chance. Chance is for gamblers, fools with dice. I don’t gamble. I place. I arrange. And they fall into place because I said so.
Husbands, sons, daughters — interchangeable parts in the same machine. Little gears grinding, squealing, breaking. And me? I’m the hand that winds the spring.
They talk about motive. Motive is for children. Motive is bedtime stories, bedtime lies. There’s no motive here. Only the doing. Only the craft. But what is craft without an audience?
I hear them whisper. Genius, freak, devil, angel. They can’t decide what I am. That’s the fun. That’s the itch.
Three in three years. Not enough. Never enough. A hat-trick’s just a start.
And when I’m ready, when the moment’s right, you’ll all see it. Loud. Bright. Viral.
I’ll make the algorithm choke on my name.