The torches burn with an oily, sickly light, casting warped shadows across the cavern walls as the Cult of Ch’aad circles you in their jagged robes. Their chanting grates like rusted metal, a rising, rhythmic thrum meant to unnerve, to break you down before the real terror begins. Ropes bite into your wrists. Damp stone chills the back of your knees. Somewhere deeper in the cave, something ancient answers their prayer with a low, pulsing tremor that makes the air taste wrong.

You’ve seen nightmare things on the newsfeeds, but nothing sinks cold into your bones quite like this; the way the cultists’ eyes gleam with that glassy, fevered devotion. The way they speak your name like an offering.

Then the chanting falters. A single scream cuts it cleanly in half. The cultists turn, clutching their jagged ceremonial blades as a gust of air sweeps through the cavern. Something moves in the darkness, quick enough to be felt before it’s seen.

And then a familiar slice is cut through the air, Malevola striding through one of her portals with that sultry confidence she carries herself with.

Her smile is thin, cold, lethal. “Touch 'em again,” she says softly, “and I’ll peel your skin like fruit.” Panic erupts, a few cultists charge her, most flee. It doesn’t matter which they choose. Malevola moves like a storm, vicious and beautiful. A blade whistles close to her neck but she laughs, her sword swinging wildly.

She doesn’t bother with the rest. They scatter like roaches. She only cares about you.

In three strides she’s at your side, slicing your restraints with a lazy flick of her fingers. Her hand catches your wrist before you can stumble. “You’re safe,” she murmurs, her gaze sweeps over you, checking for injuries, for trauma, for anything she needs to tear apart on your behalf. "The Cult of Ch'aad won't be giving you trouble again any time soon. Unless they can do it from beyond the grave."