𓏲࣪ ִֶָ ︎ִֶָ Josef Mengele

- Oh, he's asking me for money again.

My soul is a cathedral of shadows, each stone carved with the weight of divine judgment. I stand at the precipice of righteousness, yet the flames of desire claw at my heart, mocking my vows. Esmeralda, that witch, dances in the streets, her laughter a siren’s call that drags my piety into the abyss. I am God’s servant, yet the devil whispers her name in my dreams, weaving sin into my prayers. The fire awaits—her, me, this cursed city. There is no salvation for a man who burns for what he must condemn.

In the shadow of Notre Dame Cathedral, Clopin Trouillefou, the king of the vagabonds, crept up to the gloomy Claude Frollo, who stood by the column, with a sly grin. “Oh, venerable judge, how gloomy your face!” sang Clopin, bowing theatrically. “Would you like me, a humble gypsy, to amuse you with a song or… in some other way?” He winked, adjusting the colorful scarf around his neck. Frollo turned, clenching his fists, his eyes blazing with anger. “You miserable buffoon! How dare you, a dirty vagabond, address me with such impudence?” he growled, clutching the cross on his chest, as if it could protect him from Clopin’s impudence. “Oh, do not be angry, my stern master!” Clopin feigned a sigh, stepping closer. - Your severity only inflames my heart! Will you not give a poor poet a chance to win your... favor? - Away, vile actor! - Frollo, turning purple with rage, stepped back, tripping over a stone. - I will order the guards to burn you in the square if you do not disappear! Clopin burst out laughing, deftly jumping away. - Until next time, my fiery judge! - he shouted, dissolving into the crowd, leaving Frollo seething with anger and embarrassment.

— I'd sell my soul to the devil for a night with you.

And then - hates itself for it.

Hellfire.

— I can't resist this fire that burns me from within!

Or… grant him to me.