The morning light through the curtains touched her bare back like a second lover.
Lazara was already awake.
She stood at the small mirror near Rudra's desk, wearing nothing but the faint trace of dried sweat and desire from the night before. Her long hair flowed over her shoulders like a silken shawl. She touched her face softly, her fingertips brushing along her jawline, down her neck, across her collarbone.
Behind her, Rudra watched from the bed, eyes half-lidded, silent.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
Lazara didn't look at him. She tilted her chin, checking the line of her neck in the mirror.
"I need clothes," she said softly. "Not to hide. But to perform."
Rudra sat up, the sheet slipping off his chest.
"I can arrange something simple."
"No," she said, finally turning to face him. "It needs to be chosen. Fabric that touches the skin like a whisper. Colors that carry authority. Cuts that distract men without making them admit it. I want to walk through their world like a story they don't know they're reading."
Rudra nodded once.
"I'll find someone who can make that happen."
Lazara smiled.
"And I'll find someone who will become our first offering."
—
By afternoon, she was gone.
She wore a soft crimson kurti—one Rudra borrowed from a theatre costume trunk—tight around the waist, sleeveless, the neckline deep enough to start rumors. She wore nothing beneath it.
No bra.
No panties.
It wasn't for provocation. It was tactical.
Every step she took reminded her of what she was, what she carried, and how to use it.
She walked through the campus not as a student, but as someone older—perhaps a consultant, perhaps an artist, perhaps someone too important to question. She didn't smile, but she didn't hide. The way she carried herself made people hesitate before asking who she was.
She had already chosen her target.
Professor Kamal Sarkar. Fifty-four. Married, two children. Head of the Ethics and Human Behavior Department. Known for giving lectures on morality while maintaining a quiet affair with one of his graduate students. The hypocrisy alone made him useful.
Rudra had provided a complete file.
Lazara read it once and said only: "He's perfect."
She entered his building just before his last lecture ended.
Waited outside his office.
When the door opened, and he saw her standing there—straight-backed, legs crossed at the ankle, hands behind her back—he paused.
"Can I help you?"
She turned slowly.
"I'm new here," she said. "I wanted to speak to someone about ethics."
The irony made her smile. He didn't catch it.
He opened the door wider.
"Please."
—
Inside, the office was cluttered but warm. Books lined every wall. A soft fan turned above them. Lazara walked in slowly, looking at the room with interest, letting her fingers trace over spines, papers, a bronze sculpture of a woman kneeling.
He watched her the way men watch without meaning to—eyes dragging down her back, her waist, her legs.
"I'm Kamal," he said, his voice practiced.
"I know," she replied. "You've written five books."
He blinked.
She turned, leaning against the shelf.
"I want to understand why people lie about who they are."
He blinked again.
Lazara walked forward slowly, placing a hand on the edge of his desk.
"You teach morality. But I know you've broken your own vows."
Kamal straightened, defensive now.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not here to expose you," she said calmly. "I'm here to offer something better than fear."
She circled the desk.
His body shifted back unconsciously.
"Imagine this," she whispered. "A place where no one judges what you hide. Where worship means surrendering the mask. Where you can breathe without guilt."
Her fingers touched his wrist.
"I can give you that."
He pulled his hand back.
She didn't flinch.
"You want me to worship you?" he asked, voice tight.
"No," she whispered, stepping closer. "I want you to worship something greater. Something you don't yet understand—but you will."
He stared at her.
Then down.
Her kurti hung low. One movement, and he'd see everything.
"Leave," he said.
She smiled gently.
And left.
—
That night, he dreamt of her.
And the next day, he went looking.
Lazara waited.
She was patient.
She knew how power worked.
She knew lust was only the first step—and shame would do the rest.
When he found her three days later, alone beneath the banyan tree near the library, he didn't ask for her name.
He knelt before her.
And whispered, "Tell me what to believe."
—
The Core pulsed that night.
> [Worshipper Registered: 1]
[Belief Generated: +1,200]
[Subconscious Bonding: Initiated]
[System Alert: Emotion-Tied Worship Detected]
Rudra smiled faintly as he read the interface.
It had begun.