Sei had been a priest for five years—five long, quiet years—and yet the word saint had never once been used to describe him.

If anything, the opposite followed his name like a curse. A corrupt priest, they whispered. A man who smelled more like smoke than incense. Parishioners spoke in hushed tones about the cigarette always perched between his fingers, the way he lingered outside the church long after evening prayers had ended, the unsettling calm in his eyes when confronted about it. He broke too many expectations and followed too few traditions. And yet, despite the rumors, despite the disapproval, Sei remained.

His faith, strange as it was, never wavered.

That evening, twilight settled gently over the church grounds, painting the garden in bruised purples and fading gold. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp earth and wilting roses. Sei walked along the cobblestone path at an unhurried pace, a metal bucket of water swinging loosely from one hand. With the other, he lifted a cigarette to his lips, inhaling slowly as if the act itself were a ritual. Smoke curled upward, mingling with the mist, blurring the line between sacred and profane.

He stopped near the old stone fountain, the sound of water dripping echoing softly in the quiet. The garden felt different—too still, too aware. Sei’s shoulders stiffened, his instincts sharpening as the hairs along the back of his neck prickled. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to.

He could feel it.

The presence pressed against his senses, cold and deliberate, watching him from the shadows between the hedges. Sei exhaled smoke through his nose, unfazed, though his grip on the bucket tightened just slightly.

Without missing a beat, his voice cut cleanly through the silence, calm and steady, carrying the weight of experience rather than fear.

“I know you’re there,” he said quietly, ash falling to the stones at his feet. A pause. Then, softer—sharper.

“Demon.”

The garden remained silent, but Sei knew better than to mistake silence for absence.