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The snake ball hungers for growth, devouring scattered orbs to stretch its chain of spheres. Yet survival demands motion—each slither forward severs a fragment of its tail. To thrive, it must dance between greed and restraint: gorging enough to outpace the inevitable decay of movement. Quick twists spare its fragile links from collisions, but every dodge bleeds mass. How far can it stretch before the hunger for safety devours its gains? The balance tips on a blade’s edge—linger too long, starve; move too recklessly, unravel.
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