Concurrently, the scene transitions to a brothel somewhere...
Where a mysterious man becomes the centre of attention.
He lounged in the velvet shadows of the brothel's main hall, one arm draped lazily over the back of a worn leather couch. The low amber light caught the edge of his sharp jawline and flickered across the smirk playing on his lips. His shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of his chest, clung to him like a second skin. He sipped his drink slowly, the glass balanced between long fingers,confident, deliberate.
His eyes roamed the room with a slow, calculated hunger, lingering on each woman like he was undressing them in his mind, weighing them not just by beauty, but by spark. There was no rush in his gaze,he was a man who knew he had time, and more importantly, that time would bend for him. Every movement, every glance, was an invitation wrapped in danger.
The heavy door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold night air and with it, a figure wrapped in shadow and contradiction. The priest stepped inside, robes muted and modest, but his presence was anything but quiet. Heads turned. Conversations softened. The scent of incense still clung to him, clashing sharply with perfume, smoke, and sin.
The man on the couch noticed him immediately.
His eyes sharpened, smirk fading just slightly. He leaned forward, setting his glass down without a sound. There was something almost feral in the way he studied the priest like a wolf catching sight of an animal that didn't belong in the wild.
A priest? *Here?*
Intrigue flared behind his gaze. Not judgment. Not surprise. Just a slow-burning curiosity, like he'd just spotted a crack in a wall and couldn't resist the urge to peek through.
And for the first time that night, he sat up straighter looking interested.
The priest paused just past the threshold, the door groaning shut behind him. His eyes flicked around the room, searching. He moved with purpose, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed the weight he carried. This wasn't curiosity. This wasn't temptation. This was duty.
He walked past painted women in silks and lace, past smoke curling from red-lipped mouths and the low hum of bodies negotiating pleasure. But the man on the couch,he was the one who didn't move.
Their eyes met.Something passed between them in that split second. Recognition, though they'd never met.
A warning, maybe. Or guilt. Or some long-buried emotion clawing its way up.
The man tilted his head, his smirk returning but quieter now, darker. He stood, slowly, like a shadow peeling off the wall. The priest noticed, of course. How could he not? That presence was impossible to ignore. But he didn't flinch. He kept walking, heading toward the back room.
The man followed.
Not because he had to.
Because now, he had to know.
The backroom door clicked shut behind them.
The man turned slowly, hands in his pockets, watching the priest with the kind of calm that came from knowing no one could touch him. "You came all this way… for me he said.
The priest didn't blink. He reached into his coat, drawing out a silver crucifix. "You've been hiding behind flesh and pleasure for long enough."
A low laugh rumbled from the man's throat. Not startled. Not afraid. More amused, like he'd been waiting for this moment. "And yet... here you are, wrapped in your righteous little robes, stepping into my den like a lamb with a sword."
"You're not the first demon I've faced."