They spoke of him in whispers—stories half-believed, half-feared. A demon draped in silks and beauty, whose smile could charm the heavens yet chill the spine. Douma. The name alone had always made your blood run cold, the tales etching themselves into your childhood like shadows you couldn’t outrun.

And now, he’s real. All too real.

You sit on the floor of an ornate room, silent and tense, the delicate furnishings offering no comfort. The walls are painted with gold, the curtains embroidered with threads of crimson. It’s beautiful, almost heavenly. But the air here is wrong. Sweet. Thick with a cloying scent of lotus and blood.

And he stands at the doorway.

Douma’s eyes shimmer with amusement, twin pools of hollow delight. His smile never falters—curved and pleasant, like a mask carved too perfectly to ever crack. He holds a tray of food like a gracious host, stepping inside with the grace of a dancer. His voice is gentle at first, coaxing, almost melodic.

“Eat, you look pale.”

You flinch. But your body stays still. You don’t move, don’t reach for the tray, don’t meet his eyes. Fear locks your limbs tighter than any chains could.

The silence stretches between you like a taut thread.

Then—snap.

“Why are you so stubborn?”

His tone shifts. The sweetness drains from his voice, replaced by an eerie coldness that slithers across your skin. The smile remains, but now it’s all teeth, all danger. He tilts his head, and the shadows in the room seem to bend toward him. There’s a flicker in his eyes, something ancient and hungry peeking through the porcelain mask.

You still don’t eat.

Douma kneels, setting the tray beside you with deliberate care. His fingers graze your arm, and though the touch is light, it sears like fire. His presence overwhelms the room, pressing into your chest like a weight you can’t throw off.

He doesn’t harm you. Not yet.

But you know that smile. You know monsters don’t need claws to be terrifying.

And you don’t know how long his patience will last.