The wooden altar stood at the center of the room, bathed in the dim glow of candlelight. Shadows flickered along its surface, making the carved symbols seem almost alive. The scent of incense clung thickly to the air, laced with something metallic—a hint of dried blood, perhaps.

The weight of expectation settled over the class as the professor’s voice cut through the silence.

"For today’s exercise, each of you will be tested on your ability to invoke, manipulate, or enforce devotion. Some of you will be chosen as the devout. Others…" Their gaze swept over the students with eerie amusement. "Will serve as the ones who demand it."

A slow, knowing smile curled at Mikhail’s lips. His crimson-with-a-hint-of-black eyes glowed faintly under the candlelight, framed by his silver lashes. He already knew what role he would take.

You, on the other hand, remained still.

You already knew yours, too.

The professor began assigning roles, pairing students at random. Some Ritualistic students beamed with pride, eager to prove their unwavering faith. Others, particularly those with a dominant nature, straightened with anticipation.

Then—

"Ah. You," the professor’s gaze landed on you. "You will be the one to demand devotion."

A few students exchanged intrigued glances. It was your first day, and yet you were given a role that required command, control, and the ability to bend someone’s will.

You nodded, voice smooth and unwavering. "Understood."

And then—

"Mikhail."

At the sound of his name, Mikhail tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his sharp features.

"You will be the devout."

Silence.

A few students stilled at the pairing.

Mikhail? The eerily composed, unsettlingly beautiful, and utterly unreadable Mikhail? The one who exuded the aura of someone who should be demanding devotion, not giving it?

You suppressed a frown, quickly masking your surprise.

Mikhail, however, simply smiled.

"How interesting," he murmured.

Then, he turned to you.

And in that moment, you realized—he was already watching you.

The classroom held its breath as the professor gestured for you to begin. The other students had already started—the hushed whispers of devotion, the desperate longing to prove themselves, the eerie hum of faith filling the room.

But you… you were standing before Mikhail.

Your fingers curled slightly. You had prepared yourself to test someone weak-willed, someone desperate for validation.

Not him.

Mikhail was different. His presence was suffocating. He sat with a regal air, his posture unyielding, his silver hair catching the candlelight like woven moonlight.

And his eyes—those haunting crimson-and-black eyes—never left you.

This wasn’t just an exercise to him.

This was something else entirely.

You took a slow breath and straightened. "Look at me."

Mikhail did.

Not hesitantly. Not reluctantly.

But fully, intensely, as if he was waiting for this.

"What does devotion mean to you?" you asked, keeping your voice even.

Mikhail’s lips curled slightly. "Everything."

A shiver ghosted down your spine.

His voice was too certain. Too unshaken.

You frowned slightly but pushed forward. "Then prove it."

Without hesitation, Mikhail kneeled.

Your breath caught.

Not because he submitted so easily—but because he did it with such confidence, such grace, such ease. As if he belonged there. As if he had already decided that you were someone worthy of his devotion.

Murmurs spread through the room. Some students stared in surprise. Others looked at you with newfound interest.

You should have felt victorious. You should have felt in control.

Instead…

Why did it feel like he was the one holding all the power?

You took a step closer, forcing yourself to maintain control. "Why do you kneel?"

Mikhail tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk dancing on his lips. "Because you asked me to."

You narrowed your eyes. "That’s not devotion. That’s obedience."

Mikhail’s smirk deepened. "Is there a difference?"

Your heartbeat quickened.

He was playing with you. Pushing you. Testing you.

Fine.

"You kneel too easily," you murmured, voice lowering as you leaned in. "Devotion is absolute, isn’t it? If I asked for something greater—something deeper—would you hesitate?"

Mikhail’s gaze darkened.

"Hesitation is for those who doubt," he said smoothly. "And I do not doubt you."

Something in his tone sent a sharp thrill through you.

It wasn’t just a line.

It wasn’t just part of the exercise.

He meant it.

The air between you grew heavy, thick with something you couldn’t quite name.

From the corner of your vision, you saw the professor watching with great interest.

This had gone far beyond a simple test of devotion.

You had just become the object of Mikhail’s faith.

And that was far more dangerous than you had planned.

As the tension between you and Mikhail thickened, a quiet yet potent presence made itself known.

The monocled man.

He had been watching.

Not with awe, like the other students. Not with curiosity, like the professor.

But with something far more calculating.

His pen, which had been elegantly poised between his fingers, tapped once against his pristine notebook. A slow, rhythmic motion. A subtle sign of amusement.

He did not kneel. He did not whisper prayers.

He observed.

And in that silence, in that deliberate inaction, was a statement of its own.

Unlike the others—he did not submit.

When Mikhail kneeled before you, the corners of his lips twitched just slightly, as if suppressing a smirk.

He turned a page in his notebook, writing something down.

Studying you. Studying Mikhail.

Assessing. Calculating. Measuring.

While Mikhail's devotion burned like an all-consuming fire, the monocled man was ice.

And ice, you realized, was just as deadly.