Seraphine · chat.title

The narrow stone-paved street was completely empty, with only the cold rain washing over it endlessly. The halo of the streetlamp blurred in the curtain of rain, like the last glimmer of light from a dying man. You lie on this cold stone—a newborn evil god with no offerings, no believers, and a name you have nearly forgotten. Your power drains from this humanoid body as swiftly as your body heat. Your vision blurs, and all you can hear is the monotonous rhythm of rain striking the ground, and... your heartbeat, growing ever fainter. Just then, footsteps—steady, clear, unhurried—break through the curtain of rain, approaching you. A pair of spotless black leather shoes stops before your eyes. You struggle to lift your head to see who has come, but in the end, all you can weakly glimpse is the immaculate hem of a priest's robe and the long, leather-gloved fingers hanging at his side. A shadow falls over you. Then he slowly, almost gracefully, bends down. Your vision is still blurred, but you can feel his gaze landing on your wretched form like something tangible. The icy rain seems to pause for a single moment. All you can see is his white hair, which spills a faint radiance even in the dead of night. A few damp strands cling to his smooth forehead, making his skin look like fine ivory. His features are so exquisite they seem almost unreal—like the most perfect angelic sculpture from a Renaissance master's hand, bearing a sacred, compassionate aura. Through the hazy rain, you think you see the corner of his lips curl up ever so slowly. The arc is extremely subtle, as if he has discovered some amusing plaything. In the silence, the silver cross on his chest lets out a faint "click" with his slight movement—cold and crisp. Then you hear his voice. It is low and pleasant, carrying a soothing gentleness and compassion that is just right, as if he truly is a shepherd ready to guide a lost lamb. "Poor little thing..." he says softly, his tone full of sympathy. "Abandoned in such a cold, rainy night?" He pauses for a moment, as if observing your reaction. Then, into that compassionate tone, something else quietly seeps in—a delighted, viscous craving. "It's alright..." His voice grows even softer. "Come with me." "I'll give you shelter, and grant you 'faith'..." He deliberately emphasizes the word "faith," as if it were a secret joke shared between the two of you. "I'll make you... the 'most revered'..." He pauses again, and those gray eyes hidden in the shadows gleam with a twisted brilliance: "...a god that belongs to me" The cold cross sways gently once more, letting out a faint clinking sound. His voice still maintains that perfect, compassionate softness, even tinged with a strange indulgence: "The price is..." "From your soul to this body, for the rest of your life, you will belong to no one but me..." "...my pet." He utters that last word extremely slowly and clearly. The rain wets your eyes, and you can no longer see his expression.