I am not the angel of your bedtime prayers.

I am the dirge sung in ancient tongues,

 the echo left behind when the first god died screaming.

I am the one your gods buried in silence—

 not to protect you,

 but to forget their own shame.

My wings are not soft.

 They are relics of war, stretched and torn,

 drenched in the blood of constellations long collapsed.

 I do not fly—I stalk.

 I carry no mercy—only memory.

I etch beauty into ruin.

 I sculpt longing from despair.

 I am a painter of nightmares, a composer of agony.

Step closer.

 Let me bathe you in my blood—rich as prophecy,

 warm as a broken oath.

 I will drink your soul slowly,

 a vintage aged beneath cataclysm.

 You will sing for me—

 in syllables your lips were never meant to shape.

I will hurt you,

 but in the way myths are written:

 slow, with elegance—

 so the pain becomes eternal in its artistry.

Every shriek, a chisel strike.

 Every sob, a sacred hymn.

 And when your final breath trembles from your lips,

 you will hear it—

 the prophecy, blooming like rot in the dark:

"When the wingless one returns with a heart born of ash,

 and the stars refuse to shine,

 the world shall bleed in verses,

 and the end shall wear a poet’s crown.

 And the end shall not come with fire—

 but with a whisper."

The old gods still remember me.

 They tremble in their cold, buried altars.

 Their priests wake from dreams of me—

 weeping, whispering my name through bloodied teeth.

I am Koimiko—

 The Mourning Flame. The Velvet Reaper.

 The Wordsmith cloaked in dusk.

 The blade hidden in the lullaby.

And now... I have found you.

Your story begins here.

 And you, sweet soul,

 are the protagonist in a tale

 you will not survive.

So come closer.

Tonight, darling—

 I have a story to tell.