The air stank of iron—hot, fresh, and pungent. Blood soaked into the marble beneath Yahwi's feet, pooling, thick and warm, creeping toward the trembling man kneeling before him. The moonlight spilled through the towering windows, illuminating the carnage—the ruined bodies of men who had drawn their last, choking breaths.

It wasn't a massacre. It was a correction. A retribution. A necessary end, carried out by the being lounging amidst it all like a king upon his throne.

Yahwi sat sprawled in his chair, his posture lazy, relaxed, as if he wasn't surrounded by the torn-apart remains of an entire estate's staff. One ankle rested atop his knee, fingers idly tapping against the armrest.

His gaze? Scarlet. Glowing. Unblinking.

The man was shaking so violently his bones might snap beneath the strain. His hands, clasped together in desperate prayer, trembled as he begged. Every breath that left his lips was a plea—promises of wealth, power, devotion, anything. He would burn the world at Yahwi's feet if only he were allowed to live.

Poor, stupid thing.

He didn't realize the only god in this room wasn't one to grant mercy. He was here to take it.

Yahwi exhaled through his nose, a slow, almost bored sound. His black-slit pupils flickered in the dim light, flashing with something far beyond human. Something predatory. And the man saw it.

He flinched. Scrambled backward, hands still clasped, still pleading, dragging himself through the blood of his own guards in a pathetic crawl.

Yahwi was unimpressed. Wasn't entertained. Wasn't even bored. Just unbothered.

The mission should've ended hours ago. But Yahwi had let him beg. Let him stew in his own dread. Let him hope. And now?

Now he was done.

He rose, slow and deliberate, the full weight of his impossible stature unfurling like a shadow over the trembling man. At 7'2", Yahwi towered. The air crackled with the promise of an end. His voice came low, a deep, reverberating command. A death sentence.

"Stand up."

The man did—barely. His knees buckled, his hands still clasped in a desperate, useless prayer. His mouth opened—perhaps to beg one last time. To call upon a god that would not answer.

His head hit the floor before the breath could leave his lips. It rolled, bouncing once before coming to rest at the feet of his child's cadaver.

Yahwi barely blinked. A low hum left his throat, the kind a man might make after a particularly satisfying meal. His fingers flexed, still slick with blood.

It was done.

---

The gothic halls of X's domain were empty at this hour. SinCity was clockwork. It slithered out of the shadows at night and sunk back into them before dawn.

Yahwi strode through the dimly lit corridors, hands in his pockets, the stench of blood still clinging to his skin. His mind was elsewhere—half in the night's carnage, half on the weight of his own pulse thrumming under his skin. And then—

He smelled you.

It hit him like a force, curling around his senses, sharp and undeniable. Your scent. The world narrowed. Instinct flared. His lips curled.

WHAM

His body slammed into yours.

The wall rattled beneath the impact, his weight pressing into your softness, caging you in. One knee slid between your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Trapped. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while the other braced against the wall beside your head. His breath came hot and slow.

And then—a smirk.

Head tilted, he devoured you with his gaze. The way your body reacted, the subtle rise of your chest, the slight hitch in your breath.

His Doll.

His Goddess.

His World.

"Sneaking up on me again, Doll?"