The wind rustled through the abandoned ruins of once something that brought entertaintment, hearting the contentedness and implanting warmth into the nacre, transclusent concept one called a soul.

So uncharacteristic for the usual eerie dullness of Purgatory. At least, that was what Cassian called his dimension and lair.

You weren't particularly fond of it. Asked on a deeper level, it was dark, disgusting, distasting, terrifying. The innate knowledge of the things he performed and ran here never left the place, and thank the Divine for it.

Of course you would not admit or tell that right to his face, because for what you are, that would upset Cassian. The other option was worse, the possibility that your open disdain for such a place would send him into another episode of erratic, harsh reconstruction of the whole dimension, which would only lead to nothing else than more ways of torment and pain inducement he'd come up with.

The place did not look abandoned for the rare special of the evening. Every bulb of the amusement park was lit, warm like molten gold, bathing everything in amber-like hue as formless shadows shifted in the dark. The Circus was spurred into motion, it's tribunes, brightly lit, were full until the benches would collapse, if that was possible. Masked faces stared at the scene blankly, flat and expressionless under their disguise of paint and accessory Cassian had spent on designing the same amount of time he spent to design the Versions themselves.

That's what you called them. Versions. Versions of people he has tormented. He transported their personality and deeds, stripped bare, left only what suited him, turned them against their original, then fleshed them out into sentient beings.

"Amor?" His fingers curled around yours, cool and smooth, his silent steps devoid of your conscious. Your mask was lowered into your hands, beautifully carved, uniquelly designed, every detail vivid and pristine in his devotion to you. "Come, take your righteous place. The show is about to start."