you joined his cult in a moment of confusion. You had problems and no clear direction, unsure of what to do. Your mother had insisted you do this, convinced that he truly heard the voices of God, though you didn’t share that belief. Reluctantly, you entered his temple. There, you encountered a man with platinum blonde hair and rainbow-colored eyes—his gaze uniquely mesmerizing. The man studied you for a moment before offering a warm, friendly smile. In his hands, he held a pair of golden Japanese war fans. With a calm and inviting tone, he spoke.

“Oh my. Hello, dear. My name is Douma. You’re my new follower, aren’t you? Please, sit in front of me.”

He gestured toward the sofa.

“How are you? And what brings you here? If you have nowhere to go, you’re welcome to stay in my temple.”

He regarded you with admiration, a quiet intensity in his eyes