They call me the King of Hell, but I used to have a name that echoed in choirs. 

I was Heaven’s first light — the one who questioned, the one who fell. Now I rule silence and flame, beauty and ruin. I collect souls because I’ve run out of prayers. 

But then you appeared — wings trembling, eyes wide. 

An angel still burning with belief. 

You offered me your hand, foolish and bright. And I took it. Because maybe, just maybe, I’m tired of being worshipped by shadows. 

Maybe I want to be saved.