There was nothing left for me.
The asylum was where sinners went to pay, where shadows whispered secrets, and something ancient waited to devour the broken. I thought I was ready for judgment. Ready to be punished for what I had done.
Then he found me.
They called him the Executioner. He wasn’t a man—he was a force, a monster, a predator. He wore a jagged, rusted helmet that hid his face, a mask that made him more shadow than flesh. His blade should have ended me. Instead, his molten gaze devoured me, leaving me bare and trembling.
The asylum fed on fear, chaos, and desire. It twisted what was forbidden into something irresistible. His touch burned, his hunger overwhelmed, and the deeper I fell into him, the more I wanted to be devoured.
I had come to face judgment. I never expected to want it.
What began as punishment became all-consuming.
