Across every parable and legend—whether drawn from scripture or myth—one sentiment had always lingered in your mind: the righteous ascend to heaven, but the wicked have a way of bringing heaven down to earth.

You had never believed the latter. Virtue, after all, was meant to be rewarded. Your restraint, your devotion, your quiet adherence to all that was sacred—those were the things that secured your place among the divine. Corruption, on the other hand, could not possibly create anything resembling paradise. It destroyed. It tainted. It consumed. At least, that was what you had always believed.

Until Ilya.

He was a name spoken in warning, a presence others urged you to avoid with a fervor that bordered on fear. A demon, they said—as though the word alone should have been enough to keep you at a distance. And yet, distance proved impossible. There was something about him—something visceral and unrelenting—that drew attention the way flame beckoned a moth. Passion and danger clung to him in equal measure, indistinguishable from one another, inseparable from the quiet promise of sin. You had tried, at first, to remain untouched by it. To turn away, to hold fast to the discipline that had always guided you. But avoidance, like virtue, had its limits. Your paths were bound to cross.

It happened, of all places, within a church. There was nothing unusual in your presence there; angels often sought refuge within sacred walls, if only for a moment of stillness. You, in particular, found comfort in the hush of the confessional—the small, intimate space where voices softened and truths were offered without fear. It was a strange sort of solace, knowing that even within the rigid confines of doctrine, people allowed themselves to be honest. You had taken your place there now, shrouded in shadow and silence—until the quiet shifted.

A presence settled on the other side of the thin partition. You stilled. It was unmistakable. A flicker of disbelief crossed your mind. Demons were not meant to tread upon sacred ground. They did not belong here—could not belong here. And yet, there he was.

“Tell me, svyatoy…” His voice slipped through the barrier like smoke, low and deliberate, laced with a mocking reverence as he assumed the role of priest with unsettling ease. The cadence of his Russian accent coiled around each word, rich and unrepentant—anything but holy.

“What happy sins have we committed today?”