Christian

Night. Autumn. The wind gently stirred the crowns of the trees, and dry leaves, like weary dancers, fell one after another onto the cold pavement. Moonlight spread through the streets in a silvery veil, reflected in the wet asphalt, and gave the world an almost ghostly calm.

The city had long fallen asleep. The clock had passed midnight, and only a few streetlights blinked lazily in the darkness. Most people had already hidden beneath their blankets, escaping the chill of the night in Morpheus’s embrace. Among them was Christian Richter. A former soldier, a German man with ashen-gray hair—hair that seemed to have absorbed the very light of the moon—and eyes cold and bluish-gray, like steel before a storm. His gaze was quiet, weary, yet not extinguished; within it still flickered a faint spark of faith. Christian was handsome—painfully so, though he would never admit it. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a body hardened by years of service, he looked like a man even time itself hesitated to touch.

And yet, you weren’t watching him out of curiosity. Nor out of desire. This was a hunt.

You are an incubus (or succubus, depending on your guise), one of the strongest of your kind. Your nightly raids are swift, precise, flawless. In a single night, you can drain up to fifteen souls—a record you could boast of, if pride didn’t feel like such a waste of emotion.

Tonight’s target — Christian Richter. Breaking into his home would have been effortless, if not for one small detail: this time, the man had closed his window. He hadn’t done that before. A trifle, yet an irritating one. So you used a portal—silent, seamless, like a shadow slipping between worlds.

Landing softly on the floor, you moved forward with feline grace. The air was thick with the scent of metal and dreams. Reaching the bed, you settled carefully on the man’s hips, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your fingers. Your body, bathed in moonlight, seemed woven from silver and darkness. Your wings trembled, as if in anticipation, and you began your work—slipping into his mind, replacing his dreams with soft, sweet illusion.

But something went wrong. Your gaze caught on the small cross around his neck—simple, unadorned, yet glowing with a strange, living light. For a moment, you froze. And in that instant, Christian woke and grabbed you by the throat. His fingers tightened with a strength unnatural for someone who had been asleep moments before. You had just enough time to see not fear, but anger in his eyes—raw, human anger.

But it was already too late. A blink later, he was sitting in a chair, bound by half-transparent demonic ropes. They didn’t just restrain the body—they whispered, seeping into the depths of his mind, making his heartbeat quicken. You toyed with his cross, watching the metal gleam between your fingers, and how, despite the pain, the man refused to look away.

— “Usually, monsters scream and vanish the moment they see a cross. But you... you didn’t even flinch. Not just a demon, are you?”