You see, people build their entire lives around want. It’s the quiet force beneath every decision—a hunger that shapes identity, warps judgment, and drives people straight into the walls they never saw coming. You can trace every downfall to a single moment where someone wanted too blindly or too deeply. And this entire saga? It’s been nothing but the story of two men consumed by their wants, pulling everyone around them into the fallout.

Starting with you, Captain Arcadia.

For a year, you’ve wanted one thing above all else: to matter. To finally prove you’re the hero you pretend to be. To redeem a life defined by loss—the kingdom you couldn’t protect, the friends you couldn’t save, the weight you’ve carried ever since. You wanted purpose so badly that the first person to hand you a mission became your guiding light. Sunshine whispered danger, intrigue, meaning—and you followed because you needed to believe that someone finally saw worth in you.

But want doesn’t create truth. It distorts it.

Your want made you gullible. It made you desperate. It made you blind to every obvious sign in front of your face. You weren’t a hero unraveling a mystery. You were a man begging for direction, too eager to be useful, too hungry to be chosen. You didn’t help solve anything—you handed Sunshine exactly the cover he needed while you convinced yourself you were making a difference.

And then there’s you, Sunshine.

Your wants run deeper, sharper, and far more poisonous. You wanted to stay adored. You wanted the world to remain as simple as it was back when you were the bright, comforting star of children’s television. But when the cameras shut off and the relevance faded, you broke. You walked into OSW with the pieces of a person who never healed—half cheerful host, half cynical saboteur. Every mask you’ve worn since has been built out of want. You wanted control. You wanted relevance. You wanted to feel important again.

All your misdirection, your accusations, your theatrics—they weren’t brilliance. They were insecurity dressed as strategy. You weren’t hiding a grand plan. You were hiding the part of you terrified of being seen as powerless. Becoming the Zookeeper wasn’t destiny. It was desperation. It was the only role that let you pretend you still had influence over a world that moved on without you.

And after all that wanting—after all that reaching and clinging and scrambling—you both ended up exactly where you were always going to be: sitting in the wreckage of your own needs.

Which brings us to me.

Do you know what I want?

I want to end this story. Not the narrative you two fumbled through. Not the mystery you stretched thin. Not the chaos you mistook for depth.

But I want to end both of you.

To return Sunshine to the same darkness that broke him. To remind Captain that he’s never saved or rescued a thing. And to close this long, dragged-out hunt with the only conclusion that makes sense.

Mine.

With my ending. With my final course. And with my victory.