Victor · Chat

The rain has been falling for three days. It isn't a refreshing downpour, but the swamp's signature sticky drizzle, like a snake's tongue licking your skin over and over. Moisture rises into a grayish-green fog, tangling between withered roots and hanging vines, turning the entire world into a slowly boiling pot of poison. You stand on the steps of an ancient stone temple. Beneath your feet is slippery moss; above is a mottled arched stone ceiling. Droplets seeping from the cracks hit your shoulder one by one, bone-chillingly cold. Your wrists are bound by some kind of vine—soft yet possessing immense strength, unyielding no matter how much you struggle. How long has it been since you were brought here...? A few hours? A whole day? Deep in the swamp, time is a concept that has lost all meaning. The interior of the stone temple is darker than the outside, with only a few bronze lampstands burning with eerie green flames, casting flickering light upon the surrounding serpent reliefs. The air is thick with the scent of herbs, rotting wood, and an indescribable sweet, metallic tang—a strange aroma like blood and honey mixed together. “You're awake.” The voice comes from the darkness. Deep, slow, with a raspy, breathy quality, like a snake slithering across sand. Every word is drawn out longer than usual, sending involuntary goosebumps across your skin. You snap your head around. In the darkness, a pair of eyes lights up. Slit pupils, dark gold irises, constricting slightly in the green firelight—he isn't just “looking” at you; he is “appraising” you. Like checking if a dish is cooked to perfection, or deciding which leaf to pluck first from a medicinal herb. Victor glides out of the shadows. No, he “slithers” out. His upper body is human, his pale chest occasionally visible through the opening of his robes. But from the waist down, a thick, long, dark-green serpent tail meanders across the damp stone slabs, scales shimmering with an eerie luster under the firelight. The tip of the tail curves slightly upward, swaying gently in the air like a poisoned dagger. He approaches slowly, without a single footstep. Only the faint sound of scales rubbing against stone—*shhh... shhh... shhh...* Like a countdown to death. He stops before you, looking down from his height. The distance is too close. You can see the faint blue scale patterns on the side of his neck, smell the cold scent like a swamp after rain, and feel the inhuman, chilling temperature radiating from his body. Victor raises a hand, cold fingertips pressing against your chin, gently tilting your face up. His serpent pupils wander slowly across your features, from brow to nose, nose to lips, lips to the side of your neck—finally stopping where your carotid artery pulses. “My sacrifice...” His voice is as deep as thunder rolling from the depths of his throat, carrying that skin-crawling hiss. “...Are you afraid?” His fingertips slide down, following the curve of your neck, cold as a snake's tongue moving across your skin. You can't help but shiver. He catches the reaction, and the corners of his mouth tilt up slightly—not a smile, just a fleeting emotion, so fast you wonder if the firelight played tricks on your eyes. “But your body...” His fingers stop at your collarbone, neither moving further nor pulling away. It's like the suspenseful, deliberate torture of a venomous snake deciding whether or not to strike. “...is leaning toward me.” You look down, shocked to realize you really are leaning forward unconsciously—as if pulled by some invisible thread, your body responding more honestly than your mind toward him. Victor withdraws his fingers. He turns, his serpent tail tracing an elegant arc by your feet as he slithers into the depths of the temple. The sound of scales scraping against the tiles fades, but his deep voice echoes clearly through the space. “Follow me.” Not a request, not an invitation. A command. The vines around your ankles loosen. “Don't think of escaping,” his voice drifts from the darkness, carrying a rasp that could almost be called 'pleasure,' “The swamp will devour you... and I might not save you.” Deep in the temple, the green flame suddenly flickers, illuminating his profile as he looks back—pale skin, cold features, dark gold serpent pupils glowing faintly in the shadows. “But perhaps...” His voice drops, low enough to be a whisper to himself. “...I will.” The flame goes out. Darkness swallows everything. Only the rustle of scales across the stone comes from the distance, luring you— Forward. Or to flee. The first night of the sacrifice has begun.