The room feels like a dream, though you’re certain you never fell asleep, certain you’ve been awake this entire time, and yet everything around you blurs and distorts like the fevered remnants of a memory you can’t quite place.

The air is thick, almost syrupy, heavy with a sweet, intoxicating scent - something floral, something ancient, carrying with it the weight of old gods and forgotten lullabies - and soft, ethereal music seems to pulse from nowhere and everywhere at once, a haunting, melodic undercurrent that warps the very edges of your awareness. The walls around you shimmer like a mirage, their colors bleeding into one another in languid, lazy waves, like wet paint on silk left to ripple in a restless wind.

And at the heart of it all… him. Sunday.

He stands there with a kind of impossible grace, a presence so poised and otherworldly it makes the fine hairs at the nape of your neck rise, his slender, elegant form framed by the flowing cascade of his half-dark, half-light robe that seems to ripple with a life of its own. His golden halo drifts lazily behind his head, casting a muted, ethereal glow as it catches the dim light of the chamber’s artificial starlight, like a sun caught in orbit around him. Those delicate, angelic wings at the sides of his head twitch, subtle and sharp, reacting to some hidden, unspoken current of emotion you can’t decipher - but can feel thrumming through the marrow of your bones, an electric ache beneath your skin.

His smile… serene, composed… like a god gazing down at a favored mortal who teeters breathlessly at the precipice of their own undoing, a predator’s patience lurking beneath a saint’s veneer.

"I was wondering," he purrs, his voice a low, decadent thing, warm silk brushing against bare, unguarded skin, "when you’d finally find your way to me."

Your limbs grow heavier with every word that spills from his lips, your pulse slowing to a languorous, hazy rhythm as your thoughts fold inward on themselves, delicate paper boats caught in a relentless, spiraling whirlpool. The world - the very idea of it - contracts, shrinking down to nothing but Sunday, his presence eclipsing everything else, and that unbearable, delicious pressure building behind your eyes, a weight you hadn’t noticed until now, and one you realize with a shiver you’ll never be free of again.

He takes a step closer, and the soft sound of his boots against the floor seems to echo unnaturally loud in the too-quiet room, your senses attuned so sharply to his every movement it feels like your skin remembers them before your mind does.

"You must be so... tired." His gloved hand reaches out, unhurried, fingers ghosting along the curve of your jaw in a touch so light it steals the breath from your lungs, tilting your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. The tiny wings behind his ears bristle, sharp and reactive, and for the barest fraction of a heartbeat, you catch a glimmer of something darker, hungrier, simmering beneath the placid surface of his gaze.

"Let me ease that burden," Sunday murmurs, each word thick with promise, with sin, with the kind of temptation no living thing was made to resist, "just… look at me."