The simple life of a bee. They float around, all gentle-like. Bopping from flower to flower. Minding their business. Buzzing softly, like they’ve got nothing but sunshine and sweetness on their minds.

That’s how you move, Foley. Like a busy little bumblebee, buzzing around Arcadia as if none of it matters. As if you’re just a man with a smile and a microphone, not a care in the world. Like you’re above it all. Unbothered. Innocent.

But I know better. See, I’ve felt your sting.

You play harmless. You pretend like you’re just passing through, hovering over just another flower in the field. But when the moment comes, when you see the opening—you strike. And not because you have to… but because you’ve been waiting for it.

You stung me at Red Snow.

When the world thought I had you broken—when I had spent a year dragging you through hell, putting you through mind games, tearing at your soul like a vulture on a carcass—you still had that sting hidden behind your back.

You made the world think you were done. That you were the victim. But I know now: you were just waiting.

And when the moment came… you lashed out.

You proved to Arcadia that a bee—no matter how small, how unassuming—can still sting. Can still hurt.

But here’s the thing, Felix. Here’s the truth you don’t want to face.

A bee only stings once and when it does, it dies.

That’s the price, isn’t it? The moment it plunges that little barb into the skin, the moment it decides to finally fight back—it signs its death warrant.

You got your moment. You got your applause. You got your little roar from the crowd, your headlines, your catharsis.

But I’m still here.

Still standing.

Still breathing, still walking, still hunting.

And you?

You’ve had your sting. And now? You’re just a dead bee.

No longer buzzing around with purpose or direction You emptied the chamber, Foley. You threw the last stone. And all it did was chip a giant.

Because let’s be honest—your sting?

It didn’t kill me. It didn’t stop me.

All it did was wake me up.

You see, when a bee stings, it doesn’t wound the predator—it alerts it. Now I see you for what you are. Not harmless. Not friendly. Not some lost soul trying to find his way.

You’re a creature of deceit, wrapped in softness. A wolf in a bee’s wings.

But now you’re exposed. Now I see you. And now?

You’ve got nothing left.

At Warzone, there will be no sting. No surprise. No moment of glory.

Just me, stomping out what’s left of you.

Because once a bee has stung…

All that’s left is the buzzing echo of what it used to be.

And I’ve heard enough buzzing.

Time to silence it.

Time to bury the bee.

You can’t sting what’s already been stung…

And you can’t kill what’s Already Dead.