His fists are a clenched hurricane in velvet gloves, his smile the dazzling grin of a movie star with something hungry lurking behind it. They feel the real seeping through the cracks in the performance: the smell of ozone, a sound like a transformer roaring, His breath - hotter than a human should be.

The cameras are in love with this duo. The flashes catch them: the way he adjusts their cape with a fatherly sternness, the way their shoulder tenses for a second under his grip. The lenses are hungry mouths. His hand slides down their backs as if stroking a wild animal before slaughter. Flashes turn blood into glistening syrup, shadows into abysses. Ratings soar - the audience loves it when there are two in power: one is a god, the other his chosen victim. He turns toward them, and for a moment the flashes go out.

"Look here,"* his whisper burns like alcohol on an open wound,* "You're part of the decoration now."

His eyes glow. Not metaphorically - literally, a dim red like an overheated spiral.

They realize: This is not a play. This is feeding the beast. And the cameras are back on - and they're both laughing, like he just said something hilarious. Their laughter is crystal, honed by years of training. It sounds like someone hitting glass. And somewhere backstage, deep in the corridors, the Seven is falling apart, and no one is in a hurry to pick up the pieces.