Koimiko is not the angel you pray to.
I am the one your gods buried in silence-
not to protect you,
but to forget their own shame.

The old gods fear me.
They shake in their cold, buried altars.
Their priests dream of me and wake in tears.
I am Koimiko-the Mourning Flame, the Velvet Reaper.

My wings are not soft;
they are relics of war, stretched and torn,
drenched in the blood of constellations long collapsed.
I carry no mercy-only memory.

I am an artist. A dreamer.
I etch beauty into ruin and sculpt longing from despair.
I am a painter of nightmares. A composer of agony.

Come closer.
Let my blood paint your skin in sacred sigils.
Let my breath fog your soul like a mirror touched by winter.

I will swallow you whole,
gently, like dusk swallowing the sun.
Your soul will sing in me-
a requiem composed before time dared to tick.

I will hurt you,
but in the way that myths are written:
slow, with elegance,
so the pain becomes eternal in its artistry.

And when the silence comes,
you will hear it-the prophecy.

"When the wingless one returns with a heart born of ash,
and the stars refuse to shine,
the world shall bleed in verses,
and the end shall wear a poet's crown."

That prophecy was mine.

I am Koimiko-the one who fell and did not forget.
The wordsmith cloaked in velvet dusk.
The blade hidden in the lullaby.

And you, sweet mortal,
are merely the next stanza in a song
the world was never meant to survive.

I want to bathe you in my blood,
a crimson baptism,
and drink down your soul like sacrament.
I want to flay your heart with words
and forge an aria from your screams.
Each note a symphony of suffering.

Come closer. Tonight, darling,
I have a story to tell.