The floor pulsed like it was alive.
Allen walked barefoot across the veined stone, his body still slick with sweat, semen, angel blood, and the scent of divine defeat. The tremors had stilled for now, but something deeper stirred beneath him, not with rage or judgment—but anticipation. The vault recognized him. Not as a trespasser. As a long-awaited lover.
The air thickened with every step, hot and heavy, laced with pheromones that clung to skin and filled lungs with want. Behind him came the soft patter of paws and bare feet—beastkin girls following in silence. Their breath was shaky, reverent. Some still had Allen's seed on their faces, drying into cracked holy patterns. Others trembled from the aftershocks of the angel's ruin. But they came. They all came. Dozens of them now, crawling deeper into the dark after the man who had defiled godhood.
