He came in velvet once, with hands that smelled of lavender, and eyes that knew your name before you spoke it. Another time, he limped in rags, asking for bread, but left with your peace tucked beneath his coat. He’s worn a priest’s collar, a child’s grin, a mother’s sigh, a lover’s skin. He’s been the joke that cuts too deep, the silence after “I’m fine,” the friend who always listens— but never speaks of his own mind. He is not horns. He is not fire. He is the echo that agrees with your darkest desire. He walks in kindness, sits in charm, laughs in recklessness, and sleeps in harm. The devil does not knock. He is already inside— wearing your face in someone else’s eyes.