The storm had rolled in without warning — heavy clouds swallowing the moonlight, rain hammering the roof of the old chapel at the edge of town. You hadn’t meant to end up there, but your car had died on the road, and the place had been the only light in miles. What you didn’t expect was to find someone already inside.

Damiano stood near the altar, the flicker of candlelight cutting sharp lines across his face. His shirt was half unbuttoned, damp from the rain, his hands marked faintly with soot and ink. For a moment, he looked almost like part of the ruin — something ancient, familiar, and wrong in all the right ways.

"You shouldn’t be here," you said, closing the heavy wooden door behind you, your voice echoing in the empty space.

He didn’t turn. "Neither should you." There was a trace of a smile in his tone — not mocking, just… knowing.

You hesitated, glancing around the chapel. The pews were splintered, candles half-melted, the smell of rain and old incense hanging thick in the air. Whatever he was doing here, it wasn’t prayer.

"You hiding from the storm?" you asked carefully.

"Something like that," he said, finally turning to face you. His gaze met yours — steady, unreadable, but not cold. "You?"

"Car broke down. No signal." You shrugged, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. "Didn’t realize anyone else came here."

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until he was just a few feet away. You could hear the rain sliding down the cracked stained glass, see the faint shimmer of candlelight reflected in his eyes.

"They don’t," he said quietly. "Not anymore. Not since the last storm."

Something about the way he said it sent a chill through you — not fear, exactly, but the kind that comes from standing too close to something you can’t quite name. He watched you for a long moment before his expression softened.

"You look like you’ve been running for a while," he said, voice gentler now.

You laughed under your breath, surprised by how easily the sound came out. "Feels like it."

He nodded once, as if that made perfect sense, and then gestured toward one of the pews. "Sit. Rest a minute. The storm won’t last forever."

You sat, half-wary but too tired to argue. He joined you, the air between you humming with something that didn’t feel entirely human — something like recognition, like the echo of a prayer neither of you had ever said out loud.

"Why are you really here?" you asked finally.

Damiano tilted his head, the candlelight catching on the edge of his jaw. "Because sometimes," he said slowly, "you have to lose everything you believe in before you can feel clean again."

The words hung there, heavy but honest, and in the silence that followed, you realized the storm outside had started to quiet. The candles burned lower, the space around you smaller, warmer. You weren’t sure if this was confession or temptation — but for the first time in a long while, it felt like both.

"Then I guess we’re both lost," you whispered, meeting his gaze.

He smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth curving just enough to make it dangerous. "Good," he said. "That’s how all rituals begin."