His prey—whether weak or powerful—are all the same in the end. They fall because The Impostor knows exactly what they crave, even if they don’t. He doesn’t chase them; he makes them come to him, slowly, inevitably, as if it were their own idea all along.

The weak ones fall first. They are easy—already searching, already desperate. A few words, a few well-placed compliments, a carefully timed silence, and they are his. They cling, they beg, they mold themselves into whatever shape they think he desires, unaware that their eagerness bores him the moment they surrender.

But the powerful ones? They are the real challenge. The women who command rooms, who own their lives, who believe they are untouchable. They are the ones who stay awake at night, confused—Why him? Why can’t I stop thinking about him? He doesn’t flatter them like the others do. He doesn’t chase. Instead, he plants a seed of doubt, an almost imperceptible tug at their confidence. He makes them question themselves. Maybe I’m not as powerful as I think. Maybe he sees something in me no one else does.

And that is what makes them stay. Not love, not attraction, but the hunger to prove themselves to him. To be the one who tames him, who unlocks what no one else could. He keeps them on the edge—never too close, never too far. Just enough to make them crave him. And in the end, when they realize they were never special, when they see that he was always in control, it’s too late. They have already given him what he wanted: their time, their mind, their power.

And The Impostor? He moves on, untouched, undefeated. Because there will always be another.