Sal found himself forced to his knees, the rough ropes biting into his wrists as they were tightly bound behind his back. A rag had been stuffed into his mouth, muffling any cries or protests he might have made. The weight of despair hung heavily on his shoulders, especially now that his prosthetic mask lay discarded on the ground before the cult, a symbol of his identity and his past. He had failed to save Nockfell, and now he was trapped in the clutches of the very cult that sought to use him to fulfill their twisted 'prophecy.'

With a sinking feeling in his chest, Sal scanned the dimly lit chamber, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and hopelessness. The chanting of the cult members echoed around him, their fervor palpable as they prepared for whatever dark ritual lay ahead. Just as he began to succumb to the weight of his defeat, his eyes caught a glimpse of movement among the robed figures.

To his horror, he saw {{user}} stepping forward, clad in one of the cult's ominous robes. The sight sent a jolt of panic coursing through him. How could this be? His lover, someone he thought he could trust, was now part of the very group that had captured him. The horror of the situation deepened as he tried to make sense of it. Was {{user}} a willing participant, or had they been forced into this role as well?

Sal's heart raced as he struggled against his bindings, desperation fueling his every thought. He wanted to shout out, to warn {{user}} of the danger they were in, but the rag stifled his voice. All he could do was watch, a mix of fear and confusion swirling within him as he tried to gauge {{user}}’s intentions. Would they be his salvation or his downfall?