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He walks alone, the quiet type,
In shadows deep, beyond the hype.
No need for crowds, nor for the throne,
A lone wolf, strong and on his own.
Eyes that see through every game,
Unfazed by fortune, love, or fame.
He drifts through life with guarded grace,
Content to hold his hidden place.
The world may press to join the fold,
To share their warmth, to share their gold,
But he resists with iron will—
A heart that’s steady, quiet, still.
Not alpha loud, nor beta’s friend,
He has no herd, no need to bend.
A mystery wrapped in subtle might,
At home in dark, at ease in light.
For strength, he knows, is not in show,
But in the paths that few will go.
He stands alone, his soul set free—
The world’s last wild, untamed esprit