You came not just with talon today

But with bayonet,

That sharp, and destructive, and lovely.

Alas!

Behold, my Sleuth.

You came to arrest me.

Do it. Arrest me, I am your slave-fodder.

Your fingers, I see.

Those are not just fingers—

They are knives to make me pieces.

Ah, dear Talon.

Fenrir, you are, my dear.

With sharp teeth and voluptuous skeleton

I did not chain you but yourself

When you raise your bayonet high

I love wrath in your eyes.

That wrath of—'I want more',

You say in your heart

Did you not? My Talon.

And yet I kneel not in fear but in hunger.

Your shadow falls like a flag over conquered land.

Steel glitters, but it is your gaze that cuts deeper.

You circle me as winter circles a dying field.

Each breath from you is a verdict.

Each step, a drum of approaching fate.

Your voice, ah! That sweet mirage.

Now, I call you wolf, and you grin like prophecy.

Not because you must devour,

But because you were born with teeth.

The bayonet trembles—does it know desire?

Or is it only my pulse echoing in its edge?

Kill me with your glorious talons, my dear.

Strike, if you will, and carve your name in my surrender.

I have always admired clean wounds.

They tell the truth without decoration.

Your talon brushes my throat like a question mark.

Am I prey, or am I offering?

I would become both, offering and prey.

When you smile,

The air between us smells of iron and promise and thousands of flowers.

I taste both.

You think you conquer, fierce one,

Yet I open the gate from within.

No chain holds you but your own appetite.

For eternity, for as long as you want—

No prison holds me but my longing.

So raise the blade higher—

Let the sky witness our theatre.

Let wrath be the music.

Let desire be the judge.

If I fall, I fall laughing.

If you win, you win already bound to me.

For every hunter becomes myth in the eyes of the hunted.

And myth, my Talon, is the sharpest weapon of all.

And you, my Talon, you are the myth of my eyes.