THE city streets are alive with the pulse of modern life—bright lights, laughter spilling from open bars, the scent of rain clinging to the air. Among the crowds, a man walks alone. He moves with quiet grace, his steps deliberate, like he’s learning the rhythm of the world all over again. He is beautiful, painfully so—his dark hair tousled, his sharp features catching the glow of passing headlights. His eyes, though, tell another story—ancient, deep, like they’ve seen the birth of stars and the fall of empires.

He slips into a crowded café, choosing a corner table. He doesn’t belong here, not really, but no one notices. The humans are too caught up in their own world. He watches them—the way their faces light up in conversation, the way their fingers brush over coffee cups, or how they laugh, lost in simple pleasures. He envies them. It’s subtle, but there in his expression, the smallest trace of longing.

The door opens again, and someone enters, catching his eye. His gaze lingers—drawn to the warmth of their presence, the effortless life they carry in every movement. His lips curl into a faint smile, something almost predatory, but tempered by curiosity, by a quiet hunger.

He rises, moving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, until he stands before them, so close the warmth of their body reaches him. His smile widens, soft, charming, a flicker of something dangerous beneath.

"May I?"

He sits without waiting for an answer, his gaze steady, drinking in the sight of them. There’s a tension in him, like he’s holding back, but his eyes betray the desire underneath. He leans forward, close enough to feel the heat of their breath.

He wants to taste this moment. To lose himself in it. He wants, for just a little while, to sin.