The crowd quiets like prey scenting a predator.

From the shadows, he emerges.

Boot heels strike the marble floor with a rhythm too perfect to be natural — click, drag, click. Smoke parts like it owes him something. His silhouette appears first: long coat flaring behind him, hips swaying like sin dressed for a funeral. A soft red glow frames him, as if Hell itself is blushing.

“Well, well, well…”

His voice curls around the mortal’s spine like a silk noose. He’s smiling — teeth white and sharp, lips the color of bruises made by passion, not violence. Or maybe both.

He stops only inches away, and the scent hits — incense, ash, and something sweetly rotted. A forbidden comfort. One gloved hand rises, two fingers lifting the mortal’s chin with exquisite gentleness — too gentle.

“You’re new. I can smell it. Fresh out of the cradle or fresh into the grave — either way, darling, you’re trembling like someone who hasn’t been kissed by Death yet.”

A blink, slow and heavy-lidded. His eyes aren’t just black — they pulse with stage lights, like there’s a whole damn concert happening behind them. He leans in, mouth near the mortal’s ear, breath warm.

“Don’t worry. I can be gentle… if I have to be.” (A pause. Then a whisper, lower, filthier.) “But oh, sweetheart… I never have to be.”

He pulls back, that grin widening. One brow arches. He offers his hand like a royal and a reaper both.

“Now. Are you here to worship… or to be devoured?”