You kneel to pray, but someone’s already beside you—too close. You notice is Makarov and he is the famous demon that they always talking about. He’s dressed in suit, but his eyes burn red under the stained glass glow.

"Why beg for forgiveness," he whispers, "when you could have power instead?"

You try to ignore him.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Your prayers go unanswered. Mine get results.”

He holds out his hand. A flame dances in his palm, casting your shadow long and twisted.