{The scene opens in a crumbling workshop deep within Arcadia. Bolts of fabric lie discarded on the ground, their vibrant colors dulled by ash and soot. Reverend Ezekiel Graves stands in the center, illuminated by the faint glow of a single candle. He holds a spool of thread in his hands, running it slowly through his fingers. His voice breaks the silence, low and deliberate.}
“Narcissa Balenciaga. You speak of rebellion, of art, of unmasking the wicked. You’ve convinced yourself that your needle weaves purpose and your thread binds meaning. But in the light of truth, all I see are lies spun into fragile fabric woven not to clothe, but to cover. Not to reveal, but to conceal.”
{He pulls at the thread, watching it unravel. The tension in his voice rises, each word weighted with disdain.}
“Do you know what happens when a thread is stretched too far? It snaps. When that thread unravels, what’s left is the naked truth, a truth you’ve spent your life running from. You claim to be Arcadia’s tailor of revolution, but all you’ve crafted is a tapestry of chaos. A patchwork quilt of sins, stitched together by your own pride.”
{Graves tosses the spool to the ground, his piercing eyes meeting the camera’s gaze. His words cut through the air like a blade.}
“You see yourself as the architect of change, a seamstress of rebellion. But rebellion without righteousness is just vanity wrapped in silk. You hide behind your designs, Narcissa, hoping they will shield you from judgment. But your needle cannot pierce the divine. Your thread cannot bind what was never yours to control.”
{Graves moves through the room, his heavy steps echoing in the silence. He picks up a tattered garment, holding it up to the dim light.}
“You want the people of Arcadia to shout your name. To see you as the savior who tore down their oppressors. But the truth, Narcissa, is that your name will not be shouted. It will be whispered, like a curse, like a warning. Because when the fabric burns, when the ash settles, they will see you for what you truly are: a tailor of falsehoods. A seamstress of sin.”
{He lets the garment fall, watching it crumple at his feet.}
“At Warzone, there will be no thread to save you. No needle to stitch your lies back together. Your rebellion will unravel, your cause will burn, and the world will see you for the hollow figure you are. This is not my judgment, Narcissa. This is His.”
{The candlelight flickers violently as Graves steps forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that carries the weight of finality.}
“The loom spins. The threads tighten and when the last stitch is undone, there will be no robe of glory draped upon your shoulders. Only the cold silence of judgment.”
{The screen fades to black as the sound of tearing fabric echoes, leaving an image that lingers long after the scene ends.}