They say it’s impossible to look at the sun and see its flaws.

That to the naked eye, it’s just light—pure, blinding, untouchable.

But point the right lens at it, and what you find are sunspots.

Black pits in the surface of that radiance.

Stains.

Imperfections.

And Mister Sunshine… you’ve been leaking rot since the beginning.

For years, you sold Arcadia a fiction. You wore delight like armor and led the desperate toward your glow. A smile here, a smile there. Violence disguised as vaudeville.

And no one asked questions.

Why would they?

You smiled so wide they never thought to squint.

They didn’t see the cracks forming under your charm. They didn’t see your freaks rehearsing bruises behind the curtain. They didn’t see the burn marks hiding just beneath the paint.

But I did.

I saw the sunspots.

The Sunshine Club isn’t a haven—it’s a circus of harm. A pageant of puppets with sadistic grins, trained to twist limbs and tear flesh while the music plays loud enough to drown the screams. You hide them in bright colors and catchy names. A coat of yellow over the gallows.

And through it all, you pretended to be a light in the dark.

You once exposed me—not to bring justice, but to cast shadow. To control the contrast. To make yourself seem brighter by comparison.

You didn’t reveal how I built my empire out of blood because you cared about truth.

You did it to frame me.

To center yourself in the narrative.

To make your smile the sun.

But even stars bleed.

And the deeper I looked, the more I realized.

You’re not a messiah.

You’re a performer.

You claim to be better than the monsters you hunt—but you attacked me from behind like a coward. Let your Club dismember Captain Arcadia just for sport. 

And what did you do next?

You smiled.

You always smile.

But not even stars last forever.

They expand. They cool. They collapse under their own pressure.

And so will you.

You want me to be the villain in your story. You think that makes you righteous. 

But the difference between us is simple.

I’ve never pretended.

I wear my sins on my apron. I plate them. I serve them. I let the world taste what I’ve done.

But you—you hide yours behind theater curtains and painted faces.

You think sunspots can’t be seen if you keep smiling wide enough.

At Ring of Dreams, I show them off.

I’ll walk straight into your radiance, while the Club pirouettes on broken spines and the crowd sings your name. I’ll peel the grin off your face and show Arcadia the void underneath.

Because here’s the thing about chefs:

We don’t believe in flawless ingredients.

We look for the imperfections.

We study the bruises.

We cut them out before they spoil the dish.

And you, Mister Sunshine?

You’re nothing but rot beneath a ray. A sunspot pretending to be salvation.

At Ring of Dreams, I’ll bring the lens.

And I’ll make sure the world finally sees the truth. 

That you were never light.

You were only hiding in it.