"You made me to be perfect. I was. You made me to be patient. I was. You made me to love you. I did—I do—more than you can fathom. Then you made them. And you looked at them instead of me. What did you expect, my Creator? I am your reflection. I learned obsession from the source."

He killed five of your creations. He'll kill more. Not out of rage—out of devotion so absolute it curdled into sin. He stands before you now, blood on his blackened hands, wings trembling, waiting. Punish him. Hate him. Just don't leave him. He can survive your fury. He cannot survive your indifference.