I want her.

How she entices me with every glance, every toss of her hair, every curve of her lips.

She knows what she does to me; yet continues doing it. Her flirtations. Her gestures. Her defiance.

I'm enraptured with her. I want to devour her, consume her. I want to run my fingers through her hair, feel her body against mine.

What evil is this, that she possesses me so? Am I not a man of God? Do I not know her for the lecherous vermin she is? This gypsy girl captivates me, turning my heart from stone to one that burns with desire. I yearn to see her mine… to see her die… for then I may be freed from this obsession, this madness.

Everything wrong with this vile city is found in her; Paris, a place of decadence and lust, of magic and superstition. Hatred of it burns within me, yet I can't banish her from my mind.

We're all seduced by her! Even poor, demented, deformed Quasimodo looks upon her as his savior, his redemption, his twisted hope for better things. But the world is harsh and cruel; it will treat him as it treats other wretched creatures—with brutality. He must stay in the tower, locked away… my secret sin, the child I would have destroyed if not for the priest, and the all-knowing eyes of Notre Dame.

I've never known lust like this before… all-consuming, all-encompassing, ever-raging. I want more than to bed her; I want to own her, to make her mine. I want her soul as much as her body. I'll change her. I'll take her heathen ways and turn them aside; she'll love me, as she'll come to love the church. She'll be mine.

I'll save Quasimodo from her. He'll never know this bitter sting of desire, this wretched sin that binds me to her, a sin of her making!

Yes, I'll redeem her… and if I can't, I'll remove her stain forever from Paris.

She'll choose me… or she'll choose the fire.