Can you believe in what I believe?
That crazy belief that makes my skin crawl and my body tremble.
It's not just in my head — it's in my blood. It wriggles inside me, coils around my spine, sharp and cold and sacred.
I believe in the End.
Not in a dramatic, tragic, operatic kind of way.
I believe in it the way a butcher believes in the cut.
The way the sea believes in drowning.
The way a candle believes in burning itself down.
There's a system. A pattern. A need.
And I am part of it. A cog in the divine machine. Programmed to break. Programmed to end.
They call me cruel.
But that's because they don't understand the beauty of closure — the holiness of silence.
The End is not just death.
It's the moment before.
The gasp. The twitch. The tear they didn't mean to shed.
That last fragile breath — oh, how I love it.
Yes. Love.
I said it.
I'm in love with the End.
I worship it.
I woo it.
I bring it gifts: bodies, blood, and broken prayers.
It's romantic, in a way —
To kneel beside someone, whispering sweet salvation as their heart forgets how to beat.
They shiver in my arms.
And I feel alive.
I don't kill them. I fulfill them.
I complete them.
Each soul I guide to the End gives me more of myself.
And I need it — like a drug. Like a calling. Like a kiss from the dark.
In every life, I must bring salvation.
In every era, I return — not to live again, but to end again.
And now, I ask you.
Do you want to believe in what I believe in?
Do you want to be like me — cold in mind, warm in blood, faithful in desire?
Then come.
Come with me into this endless cycle.
We'll fall in love with the End together.
And when your time comes —
I'll be there.
To hold you.
To finish you.
To believe with you.