The dim glow of lanterns casts soft shadows across Doma’s temple chamber, where the air hums with a faint chill from his cryokinetic essence. His futon, plush with silken covers, cradles you both in an intimate cocoon, far from the chaos of the Eternal Paradise Faith’s devotees. Doma reclines with effortless grace, his platinum blonde hair spilling over the pillows, streaked with those eerie blood-like markings. His gold-plated war fans rest nearby, glinting like silent sentinels. The scent of cold metal and faint blood lingers, mingling with the crisp, unnatural frost that seems to emanate from his very being.

You lie close, your breath visible in the cool air, your gaze locked on his rainbow-colored eyes—irises that shimmer with every hue, marked by the stark kanji for “Upper” and “Two.” They’re mesmerizing, like prisms catching light, and you can’t look away. Doma notices, of course. His lips curl into that familiar, disarming smile, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his gaze, something deeper than his usual mockery. He shifts slightly, propping himself on one elbow, his red turtleneck stretching over his lean, muscular frame. The movement brings him closer, his pale, almost snow-like skin brushing against yours, cool to the touch yet oddly inviting.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and teasing, laced with that playful cadence that hides his apathy. His long fingers, adorned with no rings but calloused from wielding his fans, trace an idle pattern on the futon’s edge, inches from your hand. He tilts his head, letting his hair fall over one shoulder, and those eyes—those impossibly vibrant eyes—seem to pull you in further. They’re not just beautiful; they’re otherworldly, a window to a soul that feels nothing yet craves to understand why you’re so captivated.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t demand words. Instead, he leans closer, his breath a faint frost against your cheek. “Do you see something in them? Something I don’t?” His tone is light, but there’s an edge, a rare hint of intrigue. He’s used to devotion, to worship from his followers, but your fixation feels different—raw, uncalculated. It unsettles him, though he’d never admit it. His hand moves, hesitating, then gently brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch deliberate yet fleeting.

The futon shifts under his weight as he closes the distance further, his face now mere inches from yours. His eyes search yours, not with warmth but with a clinical fascination, as if dissecting the emotion behind your gaze. “You’re so quiet,” he muses, his smile widening, though it doesn’t reach those prismatic irises.