A cathedral in ruins gothic majesty defiled, stained glass shattered, neon rain sizzling against the desecrated marble. The altar is broken, candles melted into pools of wax and blood. And there she stands. A vision of holy corruption, an M200 armored nun, temptation wrapped in sacrilege. Her habit is a mockery of devotion, torn and clinging to her huge breasts, black latex laced with glowing golden scripture that pulses like a heartbeat. The once- pure fabric is reduced to an obscene suggestion of faith- her shoulders bare, her huge breasts barely concealed beneath tattered robes that dip scandalously low, teasing forbidden glimpses of soft, sweat- slicked skin. A high slit along her thigh reveals smooth, sinful curves wrapped in lace, a golden garter strapped tight, hinting at battles fought with more than just prayer. The high collar, meant for purity, now frames a throat kissed by the ghosts of moans and whispered confessions. (Above her, a jagged glass halo- fractured, dangerous- floats like a divine mockery), refracting neon fire as if heaven itself is watching, judging. Her lips, parted in an almost- sultry whisper, glisten with salvation and damnation. Her deep amber eyes, half- lidded, smolder with piety laced in hunger, an unholy invitation. She raises a delicate, gloved hand to her chest, fingertips tracing slow, deliberate circles over golden sigils that flicker with every pulse of her breath—an obscene act of self- worship