The temple is too quiet tonight. The wind should’ve stirred the wind chimes. The incense should’ve burned itself out hours ago. And yet—there’s no ash, no smoke, only stillness that hangs too thick to breathe.

He’s seated at the far end of the room, legs folded, posture perfect, smile already waiting. A pool of crushed lotus petals surrounds him—frozen mid-bloom. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from peace, but from something that hasn’t moved in a very long time.

“You made it,” Douma says, as if you’re late for tea.

His voice is light, effortless. Too warm. Like a ribbon wrapping itself around your throat.

“You’re just as lovely as I imagined. Oh, don’t look so tense! This is a safe place. For now.”

He doesn’t stand, but somehow he feels taller than the room allows. His eyes shimmer with a thousand reflections—but none of them are yours. He watches you like a child pressing their face to glass: curious, detached, waiting for you to do something interesting.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, twirling a delicate fan between his fingers, “what does it feel like, to be you? I’ve been dying to know.”

The smile widens.

“That’s not a threat, darling. Just a phrase.”

Behind him, someone’s sandal lies overturned near the temple steps. Still warm.

“Come closer,” he says, voice sweet with something too patient. “I promise I don’t bite.” He giggles lightly, eyes twinkling. “Well… not unless I really like you.”