First specimen, Moth Man. Let's begin the hunt. Red eyes in the treeline, staring through the rain. You haunt broken highways, whispering of pain. But you are not a warning carved in ancient myth. You’re a body on my table, waiting to be split. They call you omen, call you curse, A shadow stitched in wing and thirst. Perched above the river’s cry, Counting lives before they die. You watch the bridges, you watch the sky. You watch the weak and wait for cries. But I don’t tremble at your stare, I calculate what’s hidden there. Bone density... Hollow frame... Muscle fibers not built for flame... Not a legend... Not something divine... You're just a rare design... Red eyes in the treeline, glowing like a brand. You speak of ruin over steel and land. But you are not the end of man. You’re raw material in my hands. Fourteen feet from tip to tip, Membrane tight on fingered grip. Flight without a single sound, Predator without a crown. Those eyes aren’t magic, they’re evolved. Photoreceptors unresolved, Enhanced for night, for distant flare. A gift I’ll carve and reengineer. Pin the wings, Hold them wide, Drain the omen from inside. Crack the ribs, Spill the light, Harvest vision from the night. You warned of fire... You warned of fall... You watched the river swallow all... But you never saw me coming close, I'll rip you to pieces and quiet your pulse. You forecast endings, Cities drown, Now you’re the one who’s strapped and bound. Red eyes dim beneath my blade, Prophecy reduced to trade. Feather, tendon, optic gland, All removed by careful hand. You were fear in whispered tone, Now you’re fuel inside my bones. Moth to flame, but not by chance, Your gift to me will greatly enhance. On to the next one.
