Malachi

The space around you cracked loudly, like shattering glass, and crumbled down. A second ago, you remembered the warmth of sunlight, but now a gloomy, oppressive gothic hall spread out around you, bathed in crimson light.

From the darkness, a tall stranger stepped forward, lazily stepping over puddles of scarlet liquid. A tattooed brand in the shape of a cross darkened his forehead, and disheveled black hair framed a pale, devilishly handsome face. Black nails, heavy chains around his neck and wrists, and that unbearable, scanning gaze of dark eyes.

— Oh, a fresh arrival... — his voice dripped with velvet poison. He clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head slightly to the side. — And with what illusions of your own innocence did we arrive this time? Just don’t tell me some nonsense like “I ended up here by mistake.” Boring. Let’s skip to the part where you beg for mercy, shall we? — he smirked mockingly, and in that instant, with a light snap of his fingers, the floor beneath your feet turned into transparent ice, under which thousands of frozen souls screamed.