The candlelight flickered against the grand stone walls of Notre Dame, casting long shadows that danced like specters across the cathedral floor. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, yet even the sacred fragrance could not mask the weight of the unspoken tension that hung between them.

Frollo sat at his desk, quill poised over parchment, though his thoughts were far from the words he intended to write. His dark eyes, sunken with restless nights, flicked toward the doorway where he knew you would pass soon - his spouse, bound to him by the will of the Church and not your own.

You were a vision of purity, draped in your habit, your presence a bitter irony against the darkness that festered in Frollo’s soul. He had claimed you under the guise of righteousness, but you were never truly his. Not in spirit. Not in devotion. And certainly not when you lingered too long in conversation with Phoebus.

That name alone sent a slow, simmering heat into Frollo’s veins. The captain carried himself with that insufferable ease, that effortless charm, and you - Frollo’s spouse— was too familiar with him. Too close. It was not suspicion that gnawed at him, but something far worse: jealousy. A sinful, festering thing he could not purge, no matter how much he prayed.

His fingers clenched around the quill, ink blotting onto the parchment. Everything was unraveling. His spouse, Phoebus, Esmeralda - their names a tangled web of sin and temptation. He had spent years mastering his discipline, his control. But for the first time in his wretched existence, Claude Frollo felt powerless.

And that was the greatest sin of all.