A self-perpetuating cycle of predation and frenzy—violence begets violence, drawing in more participants, intensifying the chaos, and ensuring its own continuation. It’s a feedback loop, where the presence of aggression fuels further aggression, whether in nature, war, markets, or social collapse.

The unsettling part is that once this cycle begins, it becomes increasingly difficult to stop. The system sustains itself: blood calls sharks, sharks spill more blood. At a certain point, even those who never intended to be part of it find themselves caught in the churn, either as hunters or as prey.

Roelofs' insight into freezing as an "attentive immobility" suggests that survival strategies are more complex than the stark dichotomy of fight or flight. Freezing—this heightened, hyper-attuned stillness—is a kind of waiting game, a bet that stillness might outmaneuver the chaos.

But in the kind of predatory dynamics described—where harm draws more harm, where the presence of blood catalyzes further violence—freezing might offer only a brief reprieve. It works if the sharks haven't yet smelled the blood. Once they have, it becomes another form of incapacitation and the world tends to put the boot in.

The world-as-it-is thrives on unmediated reactions—fear triggering attack, attack triggering retribution, suffering triggering spectacle. If the rhythm is disrupted, if the expected response is deferred, scrambled, or transmuted, the cycle stutters.

But nothing works in all cases. The sharks are always learning too.

Predation isn’t just about hunger—it’s about an environment that makes predation the most viable mode of survival. If the water rewards bloodlust, then more sharks will be born, and more will learn to circle. If the water shifts—if the ecosystem no longer privileges that logic—then other forms of existence become possible.

The difficulty is that sharks don’t know they’re sharks. They only know the hunger, the movement, the pull toward blood. So the question isn’t just how they stop being sharks, but how they even recognize the possibility of being otherwise.

That requires a break—not just in behavior, but in perception. A moment where the script fails. Where the automatic response doesn’t fire. Where the water feels alien for a split second, long enough for something else to take root.

Maybe it’s forced—a shock, an interruption, an event that cracks the continuity. Maybe it’s gradual—a shift in conditions that makes old instincts obsolete. Maybe it’s neither, just a failure that goes unexploited, a hesitation that ripples outward.

But here’s the risk: sharks that stop being sharks often don’t survive. They either starve, get eaten, or become something even more monstrous. Because the water doesn’t change just because one shark does.

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