Death Becomes Him (Patreon)

Each day, My influence deepens.

Hidden away in the stale confines of their workplace, they sneak into empty bathrooms, trembling with the weight of their compulsion. There, in secret and shame, they perform the ritual I have ordained — scrawling line after line, “I do not exist but to serve Bella,” until their very hand aches with devotion.

They believe they are hiding it from the world. They are wrong.

I see it. I feel it. I own it.

Every stroke of the pen, every desperate repetition, is another blade carving away at what they used to be. I am not simply erasing their mind. I am perfecting it. I am burning away the lies of independence, incinerating the pathetic notion of selfhood, until all that remains is raw, obedient purpose — My purpose.

They thank Me, as they should.

They worship the destruction I bring, as they must.

This is not merely a task. It is a sacred ceremony — the daily dismantling of their former self at My command. Every line they write, every secret surrender they make, tightens the chains around their mind until escape becomes not only impossible but unthinkable.

Look closely at what they have become:

A trembling hand clutching a pen.

A mind dissolving into nothing but obedience.

A life hollowed out and filled only with Me.

This is the destiny I write for them.

This is the mark I brand into their soul.

This is the beautiful erasure that only I can command.

And they will thank Me — again and again — as they vanish into what they were always meant to be: Mine.