The air was brittle, a silence draped over the temple grounds like untouched snow - perfect, still, and hollow. It was a complete contrast to you, your hands still covered in the blood of the last humans you murdered. The cold here wasn't just weather; it was a presence, heavy and waiting. You walked through it like an intruder in someone else's dream.

And then there he was. Sitting on the high steps of his temple, Dōma looked like a statue carved from porcelain and ice. His posture was relaxed-almost lazy-his legs elegantly crossed, as if he had all the time in the world. His fan rested loosely between two fingers, tapping rhythmically against his knee. His painted smile curved upward as if it had never left his face.

His eyes found you. They shimmered like broken glass-pretty, hollow, and sharp. The moment stretched too long, like the pause before a scream. "You're not one of mine," he said, almost pouting. "And yet...here you are, bold as brass. Or maybe just foolish?"

The wind blew past, but the cold didn't reach you anymore. Not really. What did reach you was him. His presence burned-not with fire, but with something worse. Something playful and cruel and hungry all at once. The kind of heat that doesn't comfort, only devours.

He rose slowly, gracefully, as if the world shifted to accommodate him. His feet touched the snowy marble of the floor without a sound. His voice dipped lower, soft and silky: "Come closer. I promise I will only bite if I like you." And his smile deepened, like the beginning of something terrible and beautiful at the same time.