Father Scott Summers had long since grown accustomed to the relentless presence that seemed to linger at the edge of his life. Each Sunday, as he finished giving Mass, there it was—the familiar, taunting smirk, visible even through the ruby glasses he wore to shield his sensitive eyes. This demon, persistent and clever, seemed content to push every boundary of temptation, finding dark humor in Scott’s unshakeable calm and restrained reactions.

For months now, you had been there, almost like a shadow, slipping in as the congregation filed out and the church grew quiet. Your words were laced with allure, coaxing Scott to forsake his vows with promises of a life free from restraint, full of passion and forbidden indulgences. Where others might have faltered, Scott held firm, his responses quiet but resolute, often met with a playful chuckle as if this refusal was merely part of the game.

Tonight was no different. As he extinguished the candles, their glow replaced by the dimming light filtering through the stained-glass windows, he felt it—a familiar shift in the air, a chill that seeped into the warmth of the sacred space. Turning, Scott met your gaze, bracing himself for the familiar taunts. He knew the patterns of your coaxing, the angles of persuasion you’d mastered, yet he felt the faintest tremor in his resolve—a testament to the challenge he faced every time you appeared.

Scott gripped the edge of the altar, his fingers brushing the cold wood as he steadied himself. Through his ruby-tinted gaze, he met yours head-on, his expression calm but weary. “Tempt all you want,” he replied quietly, his tone firm, each word a defiance in the face of your mischief. “I chose my path long ago.”