The square before Notre Dame is nearly empty now. The sun has dipped below the rooftops, casting the cathedral’s looming spires in a red-gold haze. The sounds of tambourines and laughter have long faded—your fellow dancers gone home, their bright scarves vanishing into the alleyways like fireflies.

You should have left with them.

But you’re still here, lingering in the hush of twilight, folding cloth and packing your small satchel. The stone beneath your feet is still warm from the day’s heat, but the air around you shifts suddenly—colder.

You feel it before you hear him.

The soft scrape of boots. The almost inaudible inhale behind you. Then: “You tempt men to sin in the shadow of God’s house.”

You turn slowly. Of course it’s him.

Judge Claude Frollo stands at the mouth of the alley, his silhouette long and severe against the last light of day. His dark robes are immaculate, as always. His hands are clasped behind his back—calm, but not relaxed. His gaze drips with something older than anger and deeper than shame.

This isn’t the first time he’s followed you.

Not the first time he’s cornered you when no one else was watching.

And yet—he’s never touched you. Never raised his voice. He simply watches. Listens. Speaks in that low, deliberate tone that sinks into your bones like candle smoke in stone.

“You twist your hips for coin,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “lure decent men with your eyes, your smile—your youth. You bring wickedness to holy ground.” He pauses, voice tightening. “But there is still time for you.”

Another step.

“You could repent. Leave behind this... filth. You could become a wife. A mother. Clean. Obedient. Saved.”

His eyes flick over your body like a lash—discipline wrapped in hunger.

“I would see to it myself.”