The ones who really crave chaos? They don’t perform.

They study. Just like I did.

I take the stairs slowly, every step echoing with something holy and ruined. My hand trails the old carvings etched by monks long since buried. I think about them sometimes—about their chants, their faith, their fragile little rules.

Wonder what they’d say now.

If they could see what’s become of their house of God.

If they could hear the begging, the moaning, the laughter echoing off their bones.

By the time I reach the floor, Skade’s moved again.

She’s at the bar. Just a few paces from where my crew’s about to crucify a man who begged to be worshipped like a prophet.

We’re obliging him. With nails, heat and a crown made of barbed wire.

She doesn’t blink.

I slide into her orbit. Close enough to feel the static between us.

She smells like smoke and gunmetal. Blood and sin.

Like something made for war and dressed for temptation.

She doesn’t look at me. Not at first.

Because people like us don’t look until we’re ready to kill or fuck.

Sometimes both.

But then—just before the hammer hits the nail—she speaks.

“You’re late.” Her voice is cool. Not cold. Like a knife that’s already been inside you once and wouldn’t mind a second run.

I smirk. “Didn’t realize I was expected.”

She finally turns. And fuck—those eyes. Lined in kohl, rimmed in ruin. Pretty, but not soft. They don’t ask questions. They strip answers.

“You’ve been watching.”

I don’t bother denying it. “You’re hard to ignore.”

“So are you.”

“That’s the point.”

She scans me, slowly and shamelessly. Her gaze lands on the whip at my hip, the black leather jacket clinging to my frame, the ring on my hand shaped like a saint’s halo bent into horns.

“You’re the new high priest of sin, huh?”

“You’re the one running the altar now, huh?”

I glance down at myself—leather, whip, blood still drying on my knuckles.

“That what they’re saying?” I smirk. “Could’ve sworn I was just here for the ambiance.”

She shrugs, eyes scanning me slowly. “Could be worse.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Messiah.”

I snort. “Please. I look terrible in white.”

She arches a brow. “You’re not God.”

“Not yet.”

A scream rips through the cathedral, echoing through the rafters like a twisted hymn, as the first nail drives into flesh.

Skade doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. She just looks me dead in the eye and says, “Bit early to be handing out halos, don’t you think?”

I grin. “I wasn’t planning on wearing one. I prefer crowns made of sharper things.” I lean in, voice low, and thick with smoke. “You ever let someone crucify you just to feel the crowd gasp?”