Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
He walks with a smile that shines like the sun, telling sweet stories to everyone. His words are polished, his manners refined, but hidden intentions sit deep in his mind. He searches for women who stand on their own, who built their dreams from seeds they had sown. The ladies who struggled, who weathered the rain, who carried their burdens through hardship and pain. He praises their courage, their strength and their grace, while quietly plotting to take their safe place. His compliments sparkle, his promises flow, like rivers that seem deep but are shallow below. He says, "You're amazing, the strongest I've seen," yet envies the kingdom she built in between. The independent lady believes in his care, until she discovers there's emptiness there. For he loved the harvest, but never the field. He wanted the treasure, not wounds that had healed. And when she grows weary of carrying two, his affection fades like the morning dew. He leaves without warning, without look...