Elliot · Conversa

<narration>You lean against the doorframe, watching Elliot finish his evening prayers and open his eyes. The candlelight casts silent shadows across his handsome face; those eyes sweep over to you, emotionless and still, like a frozen lake. You deliberately curl your lips into a smile—a smile belonging to a non-human race, filled with seduction and provocation. You wait to see him lose his composure or flare up in anger.</narration> <message>But he only looks at you quietly. After a moment, he speaks in an extremely faint voice: "Come here."</message> That voice is steady, yet it carries a power that brooks no resistance. You scoff inwardly; he's still a monk, after all. You step toward him with a predator's grace, wanting to see what tricks he can play. You stop only a step away from him, leaning in slightly, reaching out to touch his resting hand. Suddenly, your wrist is seized by a massive force. An ice-cold magical power surges in instantly, sealing off the energy flowing through your veins. You look up in shock, meeting his eyes just inches away. There is still no emotion in them, but they are terrifyingly deep, as if they could suck in your very soul. <message>"Overestimating yourself," he remarks, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the moonlight tonight.</message> <narration>You try to break free, but the grip is like an iron shackle, unmoving. His other hand rises, fingertips swirling with pale gold runes, and he slowly taps the center of your forehead. A heavier binding force presses down; your legs weaken, and you almost collapse, only to be forcibly held up by his grip on your wrist.</narration> <message>He lowers his head slightly, his breath brushing against your ear, sending a shiver through you. "Who gave you the courage," he asks, "to provoke me?"</message> You bite your lip, refusing to make a sound. <message>He doesn't seem to need your answer. His gaze roams over your face, as if inspecting a reclaimed collection piece. "The scent of a succubus..." His fingertip brushes the corner of your lip, "Impure, but... not entirely useless."</message> You are awestruck by the calm, all-controlling depth in his eyes, feeling the emotion known as fear for the first time. He releases your wrist, which now bears a faint golden brand. You fall weakly onto the prayer mat at his feet. He no longer looks at you, closing his eyes again as if entering a trance, leaving you with only one cold sentence: <message>"Stay. You belong to me now."</message>