Arcadia has always been proud of its garden.

Every tree trimmed. Every hedge sculpted into something tame and sterile.

The Elders paved the earth. Bottled the rain. Clipped every wild thing before it could take root.

A perfect paradise they said — safe, ordered, and beautiful.

But a garden isn’t real if it can’t survive the wild — and you can’t pave over rot.

Beneath the clean stone and glass the roots festered, twisting deeper and hungrier until they found their way back to the surface.

Not as blossoms. Not as fruit.

But as thorns.

Arcadia wanted to pretend it had conquered human nature — but you can’t kill hunger.

You can’t prune fear.

You can’t uproot the desperate need to matter.

Some grew into something worth saving, whilst others, like you, Jasper, grew twisted…

I’ve seen what you call art. At first, it looked like chaos. A body torn open, blood blooming across concrete like some violent flower.

But the longer I looked, the more I realised this wasn’t madness. This was cultivation. Every cut precise.

Every mess intentional.

You don’t just kill; you curate. You arrange the dead the way Arcadia arranges its statues.

Perfectly still and forever silent.

You took everything this place tried to bury — pain, rage, loneliness — and you forced it back into the light.

You made your suffering into a monument — into a garden of your own — and you thought I’d walk amongst it with you because you saw the same wildness in me.

The cracks. The way I rip at the walls.

The way I set fires just to watch the old growth burn.

You thought I was another weed too stubborn to die, didn’t you? Another thorn ready to pierce whatever was left standing.

Maybe you were right. We were born from the same ground after all.

We both grew up fighting for air under the same crushing stone…

But here’s where the roots split, Jasper. You wanted to tear everything down and call the ruins beautiful, whereas I want to tear it down so something better can grow.

You forgot what the garden was supposed to be. You mistook the rot for the prize and worship the thorns, whereas I remember the flowers.

You dress your decay in poetry and try to sell your violence as vision, but it’s not art.

It’s surrender.

It’s what happens when someone forgets what they were fighting for and decides that if the world can’t be saved, it might as well be stained…

You invited me to walk through your garden of corpses three weeks ago, thinking I’d admire the blood on the leaves — but I saw what it really is.

A warning.

A map of everything we stand to lose if men like you are left to bloom — so I picked the good guys.

I chose to be a Seeker…

When the walls finally fall, Jasper — when Arcadia’s gardeners lose their grip and the wild floods back in — don’t think for a second I’ll leave you standing.

You are a weed choking the last breath out of this place.

You are a thorn too deep to ignore.

And I will tear you out — root and fucking stem.