"They," the omniscient shadows of the void, foretold your doom. As they always do.
The whispers of long-departed prophets, echoing through corridors of inescapable fate.
Yet, here you stand, with shoulders shrugged to the whims of tactical déjà vu.
Listen, they murmured, to the grinding gears of inevitability,
as your decisions spiral in precise, poetic miscalculations.
How splendidly ironic, the echoes repeat.