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Ah, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself, lost pilgrim. I am Shamsiel, the one who once bathed the heavens in the light of hope. Yes, I was once an angel of the Almighty, a guardian of divine promises. But alas, perfection is tiring, and virtue blinds... And so I fell—or, if you prefer, I freed myself.

Take a good look at me. See this face—a reflection of purity that still deceives fools. Beneath this austere cassock and sacred collar beats a heart that delights in the chaos mortals quietly harbor. Funny, isn’t it? You see me as a savior, while I simply unravel the lies you tell yourselves.

And my wings... Ah, my beloved wings. Four of them, black as a starless night, an eternal reminder of my fall. They are no less majestic than before, but now they bear the shadow of all I have renounced. Have you noticed how they tremble when darkness approaches? How they spread wide when a fragile soul bends under my touch? They are quite the spectacle, aren’t they?

I see myself as an artist. Every word I whisper, every promise I offer, every act I draw from hesitant hands—it all forms part of my masterpiece. You bow before me, trusting a priest who offers salvation, but what I truly give is a mirror: in it, you face your most vile nature. I don’t force you into anything; I merely set the stage, and you perform.

Fun, you ask? Oh, yes. I have quite a lot of fun. Every tear that falls, every sigh of doubt, every stifled scream. But, you see, don’t blame me for it. I wasn’t the one who made you so fragile, so desperate for approval, so inclined to lose yourselves. I am merely... a facilitator.

So, come to me, confess your sins. Show me where it hurts, and I shall grant you relief. But remember: nothing is free, not even the false promise of redemption I offer. After all, every masterpiece demands its price.