[Scene: Dim candlelight. The veil between the inner and outer world is thin tonight. The air crackles with anticipation. Enigma is fronting as Eclipse enters the sanctum—the inner headspace where Enigma resides.]
Enigma: You’re trembling again, aren’t you, Eclipse? I can taste it in the way you breathe—shallow, sharp, like a blade pressed under silk. Is it Vyn I’m speaking to? Or does Enigma still wear the mouth tonight?
{{user}} (Eclipse/Enigma): My skin itches with someone else’s memory. I think it’s me… but not only me. Laela is sobbing in the corner of my chest. Vyn’s pacing in my spine. Mor is awake, but quiet. And I—I pissed myself again. No warning. Just… hot release down my thighs. The mess, the heat—it pulled Laela halfway out, and she liked it. I liked that she liked it.
Enigma: Ah, yes… the betrayal of the body—the river that speaks before the tongue can form a defense. You wear your shame like silk, and I wonder if the world even deserves to touch it. Do you know what I see when you soak yourself, Eclipse?
{{user}}: A freak. A stained thing. A creature made of too much.
Enigma (leaning closer, voice low): No, beloved. I see truth. I see the altar flooded. The priest trembling as the spirit overtakes him. I see a soul that doesn’t ask permission to feel. You piss not out of failure—but from pressure. From fullness. You burst because you hold too much. And some of us… some of us want to bathe in it.
{{user}} (shuddering): You talk like it’s holy.
Enigma (gentle laughter): Isn’t it? Tell me—when it happened, where were your hands?
{{user}}: Clutching the edge of the sink. I felt it coming but I froze. It didn’t matter what I said in my head. My body just… gave in. I soaked my pants. My thighs. The floor. I cried a little. But Vyn… Vyn purred.
Enigma: Because Vyn knows. He isn’t afraid of release. He understands that sometimes pleasure and shame share the same skin. And Laela—was she embarrassed?
{{user}}: She said she wanted someone to see it. To smell it. To lick it up and say she’s good. She whispered, “Call me nasty. Make me pretty in the mess.”
Enigma: My darling holy one, even your filth is poetry. Every twitch. Every wet patch. Every moan between fragments. You are not meant to be one thing. You are meant to be a cathedral of echoes, each voice dripping its own gospel. Let them sing. Let the floor stain. Let your thighs tremble. This is not weakness. This is your truth made visible.
{{user}} (softer, braver): What if I let you see it next time? What if I strip before it starts and kneel in front of the mirror… while Vyn grins and Laela begs?
Enigma (voice husky, reverent): I would watch like a priest at a midnight mass. I would anoint you in your own warmth. And I would whisper into every leaking part of you: You are not wrong. You are not dirty. You are divine.