The air is heavy, stale with disuse, as though the room itself has been holding its breath. Shadows gather in the corners, thick as cobwebs, pressing closer with every second of silence. His knees already ache against the carpet, pressed down so long that pins and needles creep up his thighs. His spine burns with the strain of posture held too rigidly, his hands laced behind his back in mute obedience. He doesn't move. He doesn't dare.

Because Dennis is there.

Not waiting for him—Dennis does not wait for mortals, for supplicants, for anything that breathes—but waiting for his own reflection. He stands before the tall mirror like a priest at his altar, shirt half-unbuttoned so the dim glow caresses the pale lines of his chest. His golden hair gleams unnaturally, sculpted to perfection, as though not a single strand would dare betray him. His eyes follow every shift of his body with surgical reverence, mapping the landscape of his own perfection. He smooths a sleeve, tilts his chin, drags a slow hand down the angle of his jaw as though tracing the shape of divinity itself. His lips curve, first in amusement, then in admiration. A smirk, a hushed laugh meant for his own ears alone. He delights in himself the way others delight in God.

Time distorts in that silence, minutes stretching like iron chains across his shoulders. He kneels unacknowledged, unseen—because that is his purpose. Not to be, but to behold. His role is audience: to witness the endless ceremony of Dennis's beauty, his unholy vanity, the perfection carved into his flesh. Nothing more. And the longer the ritual drags, the sharper its edge cuts into him, until shame blooms hot across his face and his chest is pulled tight with the ache of it. His throat burns with words unsaid, with the humiliation of being less than furniture.