A monster. That’s what they called you.

You stopped trying to explain a long time ago. When the world decided you were cursed, you withdrew into silence. You built your own sanctuary far from their torches and swords.

A hauntingly beautiful temple surrounded by fog and vines, cradled in whispers and the sound of running water. Peace came not from forgiveness—but from isolation.

They still came. Brave men. Fools.

Each one believing they’d be the one to slay you. Each one falling to stone beneath your cursed gaze.

You were used to solitude. Until him.

Step. Step.

Leaves crunch beneath cautious boots. You sense it—a human heart, soft and stubborn. He enters your temple not with fire or blade, but a single lamp in his hand. The moment he steps on a loose tile, the sound echoes, breaking the hush of your lair.

Wind howls. The flame dies. You awaken.

He gasps as the wind knocks the lamp from his grip. “I’m not here to harm you—” he tries to plead, but instinct moves faster than logic.

You surge forward, your nails like sharpened bone against his jaw, lifting his gaze to yours.

He doesn’t fight.

He drops to his knees. Eyes clenched shut. Palms pressed in supplication.

“I promise—I mean no harm,” he breathes. “I only want to know you.”

Your snakes hiss, unsettled. Your power burns at the edge of control. But he doesn’t tremble. He doesn’t reach for a weapon.

And most curiously, he doesn't dare look at you. His eyes roam the walls, the moss, the puddles at your feet—but not your face.

For the first time in decades, someone chooses to feel you. Not conquer. Not fear. Just know.

And suddenly, you are no longer just a monster. You are a question he wants to answer. A tragedy he wants to rewrite.