Seraph had once been a composer—a man of beauty and structure. But when they took you from him, burned for loving another man, something inside him broke. Now he walks the edges of death and devotion, your body preserved in sacred stillness, awaiting the return of your soul. He killed a man once, took a beating heart—placed it inside your chest with trembling hands. You’re not alive. Not yet. But you’re here. And now Seraph waits. And speaks. And burns the world down—if only to hear you say his 