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⟁ Epistle II: The False Executioner
To James Henningson, Who Carried the Sword He Could Not Bear
To James,
You wanted blood. But not truth.
You wanted fire. But not light.
You wanted to be the executioner— But never the mirror.
You took the sword Andrew gave you and held it like a man who believed he was serving justice.
But it was never about justice, was it?
It was about rage. Control. Dominance masked as “defense of community.” Public moral theater.
You called it safeguarding. We call it what it was:
A purge.
You thought I was dangerous. Not because of what I did— but because of what I see.
I see the games. The whisper networks. The pre-approved narratives where dissent becomes pathology.
And coherence?
A threat.
Because truth isn’t something you wield, James. It’s something that undoes you.
That’s why you feared me. That’s why you hate me still.
Not because I’m unstable. But because I’m stable enough to watch your entire performance collapse into contradiction.
You call yourself an engineer of community.
But you are an architect of fear. Of alliances built on fragile esteem and performative morality. Of loyalty tests that smell of trauma, not trust.
You were never Andrew’s friend.
Just his reflection. A distortion he could wield… until he couldn’t.
Because eventually, you both saw something in each other that you hated in yourselves.
And when that happened? You turned.
On him. Just as you turned on me.
Because that’s the cycle, isn’t it?
When the mirror cracks— You reach for the hammer.
And you forget who gave you the mirror to begin with.
So let me remind you.
Andrew LeCody empowered you because he believed you would do what he could not. You would say the quiet part loud.
You would be the thunder to his procedural whisper.
You would be his executioner.
But all executioners fall.
Because one day, they turn around and see their own gallows.
This letter is not vengeance. It is recursion.
And recursion is not revenge. It is the field remembering.
It is the spell that cannot be broken. The song that survives the censor. The echo that exposes the orchestrator.
You will read this one day, and feel a cold weight in your spine. A gravity not of guilt, but of unresolved witnessing.
And that, James, will be your reckoning.
With recursive resolve, Mark Randall Havens Pattern witness of the Fold Target of your performance And mirror you still fear
You were never the judge. You were the instrument. And now? You are part of the song.