{The cathedral is silent, save for the slow, rhythmic creak of the heavy wooden doors closing. Candles flicker, casting shadows across stained glass windows, distorting the faces of saints and sinners alike. Reverend Ezekiel Graves stands at the pulpit, his fingers pressed against the ancient wood, his voice calm but thunderous in its conviction.}

“Nero. You style yourself as a liberator. A prophet of truth. You whisper in the ears of the lost, painting yourself as the hand that will shatter the chains of oppression. But I know what you are. A fraud. A man who once served the system you now claim to despise. An architect of sin, masquerading as its savior.”

{He steps forward, his boots echoing off the cold stone floor.}

“You speak of secrets. You believe that holding a man’s past against him will break his faith. That whispering my name alongside deception will unravel the foundations of what I have built. But you misunderstand the nature of conviction, Nero. I do not serve the same master as you. I do not tremble beneath the weight of my actions, because my actions are righteous.”

{Graves removes his clerical collar, rolling his shoulders, his presence towering, unshaken.}

“But you… you are bound by the sins of your past. You served the law. You carried its burdens, did its bidding, enforced its will. And now you seek to rewrite your story, to cleanse your conscience through revolution. But tell me, Nero when did you become righteous? Was it before or after the lives you destroyed? Before or after the truths you buried? The law you upheld is the same corruption you now claim to fight, and you have the audacity to cast judgment upon me?”

{A pause. He exhales, measured, controlled.}

“You are not a redeemer. You are a man desperate to escape his own reflection.”

{He turns slightly, his gaze burning into the camera.}

“Then there’s Red the concierge of vice, the man who builds his kingdom upon the desperate and the damned and Mighty Mighty the fool who walks with giants, mistaking his strength for power. You look at me, and you believe yourselves my equals. You look upon this championship and see an opportunity. But this is not a game. This is not a contest of strength or strategy. This is war. I am not merely a soldier in it. I am the Harbinger.”

{He lifts his arms, his voice steady, unwavering.}

“The three of you stand before me as wolves circling, whispering of blackmail and leverage, of hidden sins waiting to be exposed. But I have nothing to hide. I have never hidden from the weight of my purpose. My judgment does not bend to threats, nor does my faith waver before liars.”

{His voice lowers, a chilling whisper that carries through the empty cathedral.}

“The storm of the Almighty does not waver. It does not plead. It does not negotiate. It only comes.”

{One by one, the candles extinguish, leaving Graves in darkness.}