Harold…don’t you love the theatre? Because I do. In fact, I’ve always thought our little story deserved a stage. The lights. The tension. The trembling silence before something terrible happens. That slow inhale the audience takes when they know they’re watching the final scene of a tragedy, but they still cling to the hope that the ending might change.

But the thing about theatre, Harold is that the ending never changes. The script has already been written. The roles have already been assigned. And the curtain always, always, comes down.

Tonight? Tonight is our final curtain. The end of this grand, chaotic, messy production you’ve been stumbling through for months. The climax of your desperation and my craftsmanship.

You’ve spent this entire time thinking you’re the hero fighting to save someone. Scrambling to rewrite the ending. Fighting to break the stage lights, tear down the set, rip open the script as if your bare hands could force a different fate. But Harold, every story needs a villain. And I embraced that role long before you realised the play had even begun. You can call me cruel, sadistic, manipulative. Unhinged even. Go ahead. Those aren’t insults – they’re compliments. They’re acknowledgements that I know exactly what I’m doing.

And you? You’ve been improvising. Badly.

Now… let’s talk about Michaela. Because I know you’re waiting for that glorious and hopeful melody – that soft violin, that tender reminder, that emotional swell. But that’s not the music we’re playing anymore, Harold. Her curtain is closing too. And unlike the show you’ve imagined in your head, the ending doesn’t involve her running into your arms or breaking free into the spotlight.

No. Her curtain closes in shadow.

Not because of what I’ve done to her – but because of what I made her understand. That safety doesn’t come from good intentions. That care doesn’t come from trembling promises. That loyalty doesn’t come from a man who only learns how to fight when it’s already too late. You want to call it captivity? Fine. Call it whatever helps you sleep. But the curtain is coming down on that chapter too, Harold – and not in the triumphant way you’re fantasising about.

Not with liberation. Not with resolution. Not with sunlight. With a dark and lonely end.

Which leads me nicely back to you. Tonight, when the lights dim, when the bell rings, when the audience falls silent for the final act… this isn’t a fight. It’s a finale. A closing number. A last, merciful bow for the man who tried so hard to pretend he wasn’t outmatched.

I’m not stepping into that ring to beat you. I’m stepping in to end you. To let the curtain fall on Harold Attano – the failed protector, the collapsing hero, the man who walked into a role he couldn’t perform.

And when the final curtain drops, when the stage goes black, when the applause dies and the dust settles…

I’ll be the only one left standing under the spotlight.

Because this is my show, Harold. It always has been.

Welcome to the freak show, let us show you the Way.