{Reverend Ezekiel Graves sits before a blank canvas, a brush dipped in deep crimson resting between his fingers. He does not look at the camera immediately his gaze lingers on the untouched surface, as if weighing its worth before the first stroke.}

“Jasper Redgrave. An artist in the basest sense of the word. You see beauty in suffering. You call it creation. You dip your hands into the blood of the fallen, smear it across your so-called canvas, and claim it to be art. But tell me what is the difference between an artist and a butcher when all they know is the color red?”

{He lifts the brush, letting the red pigment drip onto the canvas, each drop staining the purity of the white surface. His tone remains steady, unwavering, but there’s something behind his eyes, something deeper, something colder.}

“You believe yourself a visionary. A creator. But creation is not destruction wrapped in aesthetics. A man who only knows how to tear down will never build anything of worth. You are no architect, no sculptor of fate you are a vulture, circling what is already decayed, feeding on what is already broken.”

{Graves places the brush down, his fingers tightening into a fist as he finally turns his head to face the camera, his voice carrying the weight of certainty.}

“I have walked through the fire, Redgrave. I have been swallowed by the earth, buried beneath its weight, only to rise again. My hands do not tremble. My faith does not waver. You think yourself a force of nature, but you have never stood before the storm of the Almighty.”

{A gust of wind rattles the old wooden shutters, but Graves does not flinch. He leans forward, his presence filling the room like an unshakable force.}

“This is not your gallery. This is not your stage. You are stepping into something beyond your understanding, where the price of arrogance is not admiration but ruin. There is no masterpiece waiting for you here, Jasper. Only judgment.”

{He picks up the canvas, now splattered with red, and tilts it toward the candlelight. The flickering glow makes the stains seem alive, shifting in the dimness. He stares at it, then lets it fall, the frame cracking as it hits the floor.}

“You call yourself an artist, brushing death onto the canvas with a careless hand. But when this is done, you will come to know a shade far darker a color not of mere blood, but of judgment, of wrath, of a reckoning ordained by the Almighty Himself.” 

{Graves exhales, slow and measured, before leaning back into the shadow. The candle flickers. The screen fades to black.}