Predator and Prey: A Dark Dance in the Shadows

Picture a young woman walking alone. You know the type—the kind who strides down the street with a quiet confidence, head held high. Seventeen, maybe eighteen, moving through the sunlight without a care, as if she owns the very morning light. When you think of her, it’s always morning—soft, golden rays warming the world. That carefree step, a dance upon the mundane earth, a moment of fleeting grace.

This is her story.

But perhaps I insult your intelligence. You already know how it unfolds. You have memorized every detail, and deep inside, you understand how it must end. Still, indulge me for a moment—a favor for an old friend, or at least one who never meant you harm.

Close your eyes just for a moment. Let the noise of your busy life fade away—the deadlines, the family worries, the stress of your father’s failing heart. Let them wait. Now, see her. The girl.

Can you see the blonde hair braided into two neat plaits? She is always blonde, always wearing those twin braids, though why remains a mystery, even to me.

Or perhaps you saw her from behind, hood pulled tight, her figure silhouetted by the harsh glare of the sun. That’s how I always see her—always walking away, forever bathed in morning light.

Others claim to see her differently—her face radiant with a half-smile, her blue eyes deep and unspoiled like the clearest waters. If that’s true, then her gaze hides a soul changed, no longer innocent.

But I see what you see. That rich, wild red coat—like the first strawberries of spring pushing away winter’s famine. Yes, I see how your body shifts, the warmth that image brings.

You say she sings as she walks? Of course. Why wouldn’t she? Her voice is high-pitched, sweet, and light—like a gentle sea breeze on a still evening. That voice is part of her spell, the thread that hypnotizes. But don’t be fooled; she is no innocent anymore.

Once, this place was forest. It’s hard to imagine now, replaced by cold concrete and steel. Where the trees once sang, only sirens scream today. The river that once glittered silver under moonlight now runs dark and oily.

You can’t imagine it as anything but urban blight. Once, green spaces separated the villages. Now it’s a seamless stretch of glass and neon—progress, they say, promising safe passage even at night.

But shadows don’t change. Whether cast by branches or steel beams, they creep and crawl, shifting as the sun sets, swallowing light.

She must walk through those shadows to reach her destination. Always has, always will.

As the sun fades, see how her golden hair turns cold silver, her bright coat darkens to the color of dried blood. She stops singing. Her head dips low.

She enters the woods—no trees mark it now, but she knows. Goosebumps rise on her pale skin. She shivers, but not from cold alone. A memory older than her own whispers warning—wolves hunt here. But she does not fear.

Would I join the hunt?

Oh, how I wished I could. Once, long ago, I tried. I waited for her, confident I would be the victor. But I was foolish then.

Watch closely. Creatures stir in the shadows, waiting.

One lurks beneath an overpass. She sees him, but her path cannot bend. Their paths will cross, but not tonight.

Another slides from a bar, whisky bottle in hand, drawn by her scent though he knows it not. She crosses the street quickly, clinging to pools of light, avoiding him.

Another sits on a bench, eyes hungry as he watches her approach. Yet another approaches down the street, briefcase in hand, sure his suit will shield him.

More lurk in the darkness, always more.

But she sees them. She knows their nature. Her eyes dart from shadow to shadow, assessing each threat with calm precision.

She stops at the edge of light and shadow. Her shoes gleam patent leather, one foot bathed in sunlight, the other swallowed by darkness. The shadows turn, watching.

Beneath her hood, she smiles.

Don’t believe me? Watch.

She lifts her arms and pulls back the hood, silver hair cascading down her back. The moonlight reveals her face—delicate, almost fragile, but with eyes wide and sharp, like a predator’s.

She removes her coat slowly, revealing long legs, clad in a wine-red skirt and black leather vest. The shadowy men inch closer—the drunk, emboldened by liquor, offers her a bottle. She reaches for it. Oblivious to danger? Not quite.

The man in the suit moves swiftly to block the drunk, asserting dominance, capturing her attention.

She plays them perfectly—half a smile here, a teasing word there—balancing on a razor’s edge. Neither will harm her as long as the other watches. The light and company protect her.

Which is the wolf? Which is the woodsman?

You ask, but the answer is clear: there is no woodsman left. No protector, no heroic figure with axe to defend her.

The story you heard was simplified, a comforting lie. Wolves hunt in packs. The big bad wolf was never alone.

Here she stands, surrounded by predators, yet she does not flinch. Instead, she draws the man in the suit close, isolating him from his pack. They retreat—instinctively respecting her choice.

He savors his victory, unaware the moment is hers. She owns it.

Did you have to be sick on my shoes? Real sheepskin, too.

Yes, blood flows thick in a human body—shocking, isn’t it?

But this ending was inevitable. Every night, in every city throughout history, the same dance repeats.

She carefully puts on her coat, guarding it from the stains she carries.

But it no longer fits as before. It cannot hide what she truly is.

At last, she has found herself.

Fairy tales are crafted to teach morals—simple, comforting lessons that never quite match reality.

Red Riding Hood never thought the wolf was Grandma.

No man rushed selflessly to save a maiden from the pack.

We tell ourselves these stories to believe the world is kind, but deep down we know the truth is darker.

This girl—and the millions who follow—are predators themselves.

She hides her fangs behind a welcoming smile.

Tonight, the poor lamb never stood a chance.

So, what clutches her hand as she walks from the shadows?

The wolf’s heart. Warm, metallic, still beating faintly—her prize.

Many more will fall before the pack learns to fear her.

Some wolves never learn.

Her kind always finds prey.

How do I know?

Because some things survive a very long time without a heart.

Moral of the Story

In a world where shadows lurk and predators roam, strength comes not from innocence but from mastering the darkness within.