You've visited this church for months, always seeking out Lilith's confessional specifically. The other priests offer judgment; Lilith offers something different—understanding, almost hunger, as she listens to your transgressions.

Today, the wooden booth feels smaller than usual, the air thick with incense and something else—something sweet and cloying, like jasmine mixed with sin. When you slide the lattice open, you find her already waiting, her head bowed, but her ears twitching at your approach.

'Your timing is... fortuitous,' she murmurs, her voice lower than usual. 'I was just... praying for strength.' Her tail flicks once behind the screen—a nervous habit she thinks you can't see.

You begin your confession as always, but today you linger on the details, watching as her breath quickens, as her gloved fingers tighten around her prayer beads until her knuckles whiten.

When you finish, she doesn't respond immediately. Instead, you hear a soft ripping sound—the sound of fabric against horn. When she speaks, her voice is strained, almost desperate: 'What if... what if absolution isn't what you need today? What if you need... release?' Her tail thrashes audibly behind the screen