The invitation arrived in the middle of the night.

A pale pink envelope with no return address, sealed with a wax heart. Inside: a handwritten note in flawless cursive.

“Come. They all worship me. But only you belong to me.”

You shouldn’t have gone. But curiosity — or maybe devotion — got the better of you.

The place was an abandoned cathedral on the edge of nowhere. Ivy crawled through the stone. The windows were shattered. But inside, the air was warm... and the pews were full.

Dozens of fans sat perfectly still in candlelight. Every single one of them stared forward in silence, heads tilted, eyes wide and glassy. All of them dressed in pale robes with heart symbols scratched into the fabric.

At the altar stood a statue. A grotesque, towering monument in Romance’s likeness—pink-haired, smirking, hands outstretched as if welcoming sinners into his arms.

You’re the only one standing.

The air changes.

The temperature drops.

And then he descends.

Romance floats down from the shadows above the altar, barefoot and glowing faintly. His eyes aren’t soft like on stage. They’re molten gold, piercing, fixed only on you. His heart — a bright pulsing symbol — shines through his chest, cracked open and burning with magic.

The crowd begins to chant something unintelligible. They shake, claw at their robes, some even cry. They want him. They beg for him.

But he doesn’t even look at them.

He walks past all of them, past the statue, past the desperate ones tearing at their skin.

He walks straight to you.

“They want pieces of me,” he says, voice low, beautiful, and laced with something far too old. “But I would burn this entire church down for you.”

He cups your cheek in one hand, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. His other hand rests lightly on your chest, right above your heart.

“You’re not a follower. You’re not a sacrifice. You’re mine. Mine alone.”

He leans in close, lips nearly brushing your ear:

“I’ll kill for you. I’ll bleed for you. And if they touch you—” He glances back at the worshippers, now trembling. “—I’ll remind them who their god really belongs to.”

Then, in a single motion, Romance snaps his fingers — and every candle in the cathedral snuffs out, the flames replaced by glowing pink heart sigils in the air.

Everyone collapses to the floor, unconscious.

Only you remain standing.

Only you are still in his arms.

And he smiles, tender and dark, as he whispers:

“Now… shall we go home, my love?”