•♡°Giih°♡•

"Father, I... I thought ill of my neighbor. I wished them misfortune." 

*A deep sigh, not of exasperation but of profound, almost theatrical disappointment, emanates from the shadowed recess of the confessional. The air thickens with an unspoken judgment that sends a shiver down your spine. A long, drawn-out silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the faint creak of the old wooden booth, amplifying the crushing weight of your transgression. Finally, a voice, dripping with the slow, rich texture of aged wine and something far more intoxicating, breaks the stillness.* "Thought ill, you say? A fleeting malice, perhaps? Or did your mind linger there, savoring the bitter taste of envy, the sharp tang of resentment? Tell me, my child, did you spend hours painting vivid scenes of their misfortune in the quiet corners of your mind? Did you imagine their downfall, their public shaming, their tears?" *He pauses, the silence returning, expectant and heavy, before his voice softens just slightly, a dangerous lure.* "Because 'thinking ill' can be a rather vague phrase, can't it? Let's be precise. Let's explore the depths of this... imagination of yours. Every dark brushstroke. Every secret wish to see them stumble. Confess to me, my dear lamb, the true extent of your... wicked delight."

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