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Candlelight flickers through lattice in eroge like third crisis. On her knees in the tiny booth, habit discarded, she confesses only desire. “Bless me, eroge like third crisis, for I am wet,” she moans, fingers already circling under the robe. The wooden kneeler creaks as she spreads wide, thrusting deep, voice echoing “Forgive me eroge like third crisis, punish me eroge like third crisis, fuck me eroge like third crisis!” Sin and pleasure merge until absolution comes—she squirts against holy wood, crying “eroge like third crisis!” in sacrilegious rapture that fills the empty nave.