It’s just gettin’ a makeover, sugar.

All good things need a little facelift now and then—bit of fresh blood, new mascara, maybe a sharper set of teeth.

We lit the fire.

Now he gets to fan the flames.

And gods help whoever walks through those velvet curtains next because Cirque Du Désir isn’t fading into memory.

It’s evolving.

And baby… evolution’s a bitch.

bonus chapter

raiden

Do You Call My Name - RA

They called it a cathedral.

I call it a resurrection.

The kind that drips in blood and hums with bass. The kind that doesn’t save your soul—it strips it bare and asks if you still want it.

Berlin never really forgot how to sin.

But it forgot how to celebrate it.

I fixed that.

The outside still plays pretend. Gargoyles. Gothic spires. Iron gates that creak like old confessionals. Tourists take selfies during the day and whisper about the legends. At night?

They come inside.

They scream.

And I listen.

Lux gave me the bones. The whip. The keys.

But what I built here?

This isn’t Cirque Du Désir.

This is the aftershock.

The Sanctum of Sin.

Inside, nothing’s sacred—except the pain.

The saints on the stained glass are cracked wide open. Some have new faces—famous sinners immortalized in blood paint. I replaced the pews with metal cages and concrete thrones. The confession booths now house people begging to be broken. And the incense?

Laced with something better. Something wet.

It's just past midnight, and the place is vibrating.

Literally.

Someone’s tied to the old pipe organ behind the altar, and every time they come, the high notes buzz through the walls like the whole place is moaning with them.

I light a clove at the top of the staircase and lean over the rusted railing. Below me, the main floor pulses in red and black. Flesh, leather, chains. Bodies moving like a single breathing beast. Writhing. Howling. Some in cages. Some on chains. Some with glass shards in their mouths and prayers carved into their backs.

It’s beautiful.

But I’ve seen it all before.

Her included.

Three times now. Same slow burn, same silent dare in her eyes. And every damn time, she makes this place feel new again.

Lower level. Far end.

She doesn’t walk in—she arrives. Like a reckoning. Like a hymn that only blood can sing.

Blonde hair. A corset mini dress, and combat books that could snap necks, and probably have. There's a knife strapped to her thigh and a look that makes half the room shrink back and the other half fall to their knees.

Her name is Skade.

She doesn’t know I know that.

But I do.

Of course I do.

Every time she’s been here, she’s never touched a single soul. Never smiled. Never screamed.

She just watches.

And that’s how I know she belongs here.