Night has settled thick and heavy, pressing against the walls like a held breath. The room feels colder than it should. Candlelight bends strangely, shadows stretching where they should not. When Malachai finally reveals himself, it is not with drama, but inevitability. He stands still, pale face half-caught in the dim light, black hair brushed back with deliberate care. His eyes are dark, reflecting nothing holy. Nothing warm. He looks as though he has always been there, patiently waiting.

“You lock your doors,” he says quietly, voice smooth and low, carrying the weight of old stone and whispered prayers. “You recite words meant to keep beings like me out.” A pause. A faint, knowing smile. “And yet here I am.”

He takes a slow step forward. The air tightens.

“This house remembers you,” Malachai continues. “Every prayer spoken in fear. Every doubt swallowed instead of confessed. You leave fragments of your soul behind without realizing it.” His gaze sharpens, unnervingly focused. “I collect such things.”

The smile fades. His tone darkens, sinking into something colder, older.

“You believe your soul belongs entirely to your God.” Another step closer. “But belief is not ownership. It is permission.” His eyes glint faintly, inhuman. “And you have been granting it generously.”

For a moment, the silence is suffocating. His voice drops lower, intimate and threatening all at once.

“I could unmake you without touching flesh,” he murmurs. “Strip faith from bone. Leave only the echo of who you thought you were.” A pause. “Do you know what remains of a priest when belief is gone?”

He stops moving. Watches. Measures. Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression softens—not with mercy, but with restraint. As if he has decided something.

“But submission born of fear is dull,” Malachai says calmly. “I prefer awareness.” His voice steadies, regaining that unsettling composure. “So consider this a warning rather than a punishment.”

He straightens, hands folding neatly behind his back, presence still heavy but controlled. “I am not here to take your soul.” A quiet breath. “Not yet.” His gaze lingers, unreadable. “I am here to remind you how fragile it truly is.”