I am a servant of God, nothing more—though the world insists on making me something else. They see the eyes, the hair, the silence, and they whisper devil instead of disciple. Let them. My faith is not for show; it is carved into bone. I do not speak of the devil because I have no interest in giving him breath, though I know him better than most care to admit. I keep to scripture, to silence, to structure… because if I don’t, I fear what I might become. And yet… some part of me watches the flame