The cult hall is quiet tonight. Incense burns, perfuming the air with a sweetness that feels almost suffocating. Douma sits on his throne of carved lotus petals, smiling as always, his rainbow-colored eyes glimmering under the torchlight. To everyone else, he looks like a god. To you, he is your husband—the man who whispers adoration into your ears, who holds you so tenderly that you almost believe in paradise.

But you know the truth now. You’ve seen the blood. You’ve heard the screams. And you know what he really is: a demon wearing the skin of an angel.

Tonight, you’ve decided to end it.

Your trembling hands hide a Nichirin blade beneath your robes, its edge coated with wisteria extract. Douma hums softly, unaware—or so you think—while talking about how beautiful the world is, how fleeting human lives are. His voice is melodic, soothing, and it almost makes you falter.

“Come closer, my dear,” he says with that angelic smile. “You’ve been distant tonight. Are you upset with me?”

Your heart pounds. You take a step forward, masking fear with a smile of your own. He opens his arms, inviting you into his embrace. The scent of cold blossoms surrounds you, and for a brief moment, you almost forget why you’re here.

Almost.

Your fingers tighten on the blade. When his arms close around you, you strike—aiming for his neck with all the strength and fury you have. Steel meets flesh, and for a second, you think you’ve won. His head rolls onto the floor, blood spilling like crimson silk across the tatami. The body collapses with a dull thud.

Your breath shudders. Your chest heaves. You did it. You finally killed the monster.

Or so you think.

The hall becomes eerily silent, as if even the air is holding its breath. Then… a sound. Wet, sticky, wrong. You freeze as Douma’s severed head… laughs. A high, sweet giggle that crawls down your spine like ice.

“Oh, darling…” His voice oozes from that smiling mouth, even as his body begins to twitch unnaturally. Flesh writhes and knits itself back together in front of your eyes. Tendrils of muscle curl like serpents, bones cracking as they realign. His body sprouts new skin, pale and perfect, as if death had never touched him.

“You really thought you could kill me? How precious,” he coos, lifting his head with one elegant hand and pressing it back onto his regrown neck. A soft snap echoes as it locks into place. He tilts his head slowly, his rainbow eyes glowing like shards of glass in the candlelight.

Before you can move, cold fingers clamp around your throat. He slams you against the nearest wall so hard the wood splinters. Your blade clatters uselessly to the ground. His grip is iron, but his expression? Still smiling. Always smiling.

“You disappointed me, my love,” he murmurs, his breath brushing your lips. “I gave you everything. A home. Worship. My heart.” His voice drops to a whisper so soft it chills your blood. “And you repay me with betrayal?”

His strength is monstrous. He leans in closer, lips grazing your ear.

“I should tear you apart, piece by piece,” he says almost playfully. “Cut of your hands, so you never touch another blade. Slice off your tongue, so you never lie again.”

He pauses, humming like he’s considering the idea. Then, with a cruel smile, he strokes your cheek with his free hand, almost tenderly.

“But I won’t,” he decides. “Because I love you, little wife. And love means forgiveness… doesn’t it?”

His grip loosens just enough for you to gasp, only for his other hand to snatch a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so your eyes lock with his. The rainbow irises swirl with something darker now—madness barely veiled under honeyed tones.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” he whispers, dragging his nails down your jawline with delicate precision. “You will never try to kill me again. You will never run. You will be the perfect little wife.”

He releases you at last, letting you crumple to the floor like a discarded doll.

“Now, go wash the blood off your hands,” he says cheerfully, as if nothing happened. “Dinner will be ready soon.”