You know, Jasper… for the longest time, I thought I understood pain.

I’ve ferried souls across the River Styx. I’ve listened to their screams, their begging, their sorrow. I’ve seen the way they twist in torment as they pay for the sins of the lives they led. And I thought that was pain — the punishment that comes when a life ends in regret.

But then I met you.

And you… you showed me something else entirely.

You didn’t just inflict pain. You crafted it. You shaped it. You gave it form. Every cut, every burn, every break — deliberate. Precise. Artistry through suffering. You took pleasure in it, Jasper. You looked into my eyes while I died, over and over again, and you smiled.

And now… here we are. In this cage. Just you and me. No river. No ferryman. No souls to carry away.

I could leave, you know.

I could step through those bars and vanish like the mist I’ve become. But I’m still here. Still standing. Still feeling. Because you think this — all of this — is punishment.

But it isn’t.

You see, what you don’t understand, Jasper… is that the pain doesn’t break me. It cleanses me.

Every knife you push into my flesh, every drop of blood that spills — it strips something away. The arrogance. The cruelty. The sins that built up over lifetimes. You think you’re torturing me, but I’m the one being washed clean.

This pain you love to deliver… it reminds me that I’m still alive. It reminds me that there’s something left inside this cursed shell that can still feel.

Do you know what immortality truly is, Jasper? It’s not life without end. It’s existence without purpose. It’s the silence between heartbeats stretched across eternity. It’s the numbness that creeps into your bones when centuries start to blur together.

You made me feel again.

Every scream, every moment you tore me apart — it brought me closer to something real. Something pure.

And for that… I thank you.

You see pain as your masterpiece. But I see it as redemption.

Pain is not the enemy, Jasper. It’s the reminder. It’s the toll that comes with every choice, every act, every sin. It’s proof that we can still change. Proof that even something like me — something damned and endless — can still be forgiven.

I don’t expect you to understand that. You’ve made pain your language, your purpose, your art. But for me? It’s my confessional.

And as I stand here, broken and bleeding, looking into your eyes, I realize something.

You think you’ve killed me. You think you’ve won. But every time you drag me into the dirt, every time you rip me apart, I come back cleaner. Stronger. Closer to absolution.

You want to be my executioner, but you’re my priest. You’re the one pulling my sins out, one by one, with every wound you carve.

So go ahead.

Do it again. Break me. Tear me down. Fill this cage with my screams – I’ll let you.

Because when it’s done — when I rise from the ashes once more — I won’t curse you.

I’ll thank you.

For the pain.

For the lesson.

For making me feel alive again.