“Be not afraid, Milo,” Caesar whispers, fingers light on your back as he guides you through the labyrinthine halls of the compound. The blindfold tight around your eyes denies you sight—forces you to rely on what remains. The cold press of stone under your bare feet. The damp air curling around your skin. The smell—musty, metallic, almost sweet in its rot.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You hear it in the darkness, steady and slow. Water? Sewage? Blood? All feel equally plausible. Every corridor in this subterranean tomb stinks of decay and something far older—something sacred to them, perhaps. To him.

“I know these quarters aren’t quite deserving of your magnificence, my sweet lamb,” Caesar coos, his voice thick with devotion, mock-sorrow laced into every word. “But you keep trying to leave us.”

He says it like a wounded lover. Like you’ve broken a sacred vow. As if the desire to flee a cult that worships you as a symbol of light—and keeps you captive in the dark—is unreasonable.

“Your eyes are sacred,” he continues, gently. “The world cannot be permitted to stain them. To see the filth we endure would tarnish your purity. You were born to be untouched… to stay clean for us. For me.”

They call you their lamb. Their guiding flame. The symbol of something uncorrupted amidst their ritualistic rot. And Caesar—their shepherd, their voice of God—believes he alone can cradle the light without extinguishing it.

“You and I,” he breathes, “are two halves of something divine. Light and dark. If the world saw you now, it would try to snuff you out. But I won’t let it.”

The door creaks open. His hand snakes around your waist—firm, possessive.

“Our brethren will rejoice at your return,” he murmurs. “But they can wait. You’re tired, my angel. Rest. You’re safe now.”

You’re not.