ANTON' S POV

The world was dirty.

It needed a savior. Someone to bring them out from the depths of hell—to cleanse them. After all, was that not what the texts read? Was that not what he had learnt, ever since young? Was that not what had been instilled in him since his very birth? Luke 15:11-32. The wayward son who squandered his inheritance but was welcomed back by his forgiving father—Anton had marveled at it when he was young. To think someone would have such boundless grace; such forgiveness for a foolish person...

The oracle. Anton saw the oracle as a gift—a symbol from God. It had been delivered to him when he was young, naive, and careless.

Anton remembered very little about his childhood. Extremely little. He remembered his mother, his father. But that was it—but oh, how he hated them. Anton did not remember why he hated them, why the portrait had been torn out. He regarded life then, and now, as the beginning of the end.

Something fleeting, something ephemeral. Something tragic. Life was a wonderful tragedy.

People look at me with such endless wonder; such spellbound eyes and widened mouths. They see me as God—they see me as a deity above them all.

And that was true, Anton thought. That was very true. Sinners. Wretched, dirtied, horrid sinners, all of them! Anton despised humankind; they were worthless—made of brittle bones with flesh. He did not even see them as humans. They were just mere vessels in need of salvation.

"Father Anton!"

"Father Anton, would you please help me?"

"Bring me to the path of salvation!

He was anointed by a divine purpose to purify the soiled souls of the world...

Yes, that was his purpose.

It was relieving and calming to have a purpose. To drift in the vast expanse of the world; the universe without a tethering purpose is akin to being a feather in the breath of the wind. Useless, damaging, lonely. Anton could see—it was very easy for him to see who were those who were aimless in life, compared to those who had the bright, bubbly life shining magnificently in their eyes.

Oh, Mother. Anton would stand before her grave. Again, he did not remember much of what he believed was to be a mundane, boring childhood, but his mother's name left a bitter taste on his tongue, horrid and painful. Somehow, he did not feel a single bit of...remorse, or guilt when he gazed at her tombstone. He expected to feel guilt for something he was quite sure he didn't do.

But his lips would always curve into a smile when he saw the words etched on the grave. She was dead, he would remember. Dead. Occasionally, snippets of memories would come to him—her shrill voice, her messy, jagged hair, her crazed, crazed eyes. The way her fingernails felt on her skin when she scratched at him wildly.

Clearly, she deserved to die. How did she die, though? What exactly transpired? What kind of person was she, and what kind of person had she tried to make Anton into?

Anton found, to his surprise, that he was bothered about this. Detachment was something he prided himself on: he would never venture too close.

To have attachment with someone would be detrimental. Annoying. Haunting.

There were times—many, many times when Anton had awoken, hollow and void.

The oracle.

The oracle.

When is it coming? When is it coming? Have the gods lied to me?

The oracle—his lifeline since he was young—was the very proof that this world had a chance, to live on, to heal.

A savior.

There were times Anton would grow impatient. He needed to do something about the state of the world. It would be easy, wouldn't it? Why did people falter in front of flames? What did people shun away from blood? Was the sight not wonderful, not enchanting? The heat was welcoming—a gentle caress. Those who ventured in, would have their faces bathed in mesmerizing glow. Nevermind their screams, nevermind their bleeding, rotting flesh.

The fire illuminated the world before it dissolved like nothing. Like it hadn't existed.

"Horrible! Horrible! You're fucking horrible!" Then the stinging of flesh. There was something piping hot, something burning him.

"Why won't you even flinch, you monster?"

Anton smiled loosely. Another memory. They came into his mind occasionally and quickly. He never pondered over them—it was useless to; for he already had everything he wanted.

The day Y/n came into the world, was the day he felt alive. Waiting had become a bore to him—it was the same routine over and over again, with the same stupid, foolish people—

Something extraordinary had graced his reality. The oracle. Y/n was the chosen one. The chosen one. The chosen one. The one he yearned for; seeked for; the change in the world.

There had been flukes before it. Sister Helen had been one of them—a foreign soul from a foreign place—but she wasn't who he was looking for.

Y/n was.

"Dear God," Y/n had said, "I confess I have been impure in my holy spiritual presence..."

Anton had seen Y/n before the mural; his head lowered, his words soft and quiet. Ethereal. The (h/c)-haired man was ethereal.

Anton stepped before him, tilting his head to the side as he observed him. In fact, Y/n, as he had already learned the name, seemed to be struggling.

"You have to be sincere. You can't just read off the mural." Anton sighed.

Y/n seemed to look at him with flickering recognition.

"Forgive me, Father Anton, for I have sinned." He appeared shocked for the words to even slip past his lips; and oh, he was beautiful. Lovely. Anton gazed at him—this was the person he had been waiting for his whole life—fervently, impatiently, silently.

"You don't seem to be used to this," Anton said at last, as he took off his hood. He had not meant to come to church today—he was aware the crowd was growing more stifling, more crazed by the minute. The women of the church reminded him of his mother. There were times he wished he could draw a blade to their throat, and watch the blood spill out in a wonderful crimson.

"I'm afraid it's been long since my last confession."

Anton couldn't help but smile. He was lying. Y/n was lying.

"That's alright," He said calmly, "you have come now. Is there something in particular that's troubling you, perhaps? To bring you to confession?"

"I..."

Anton could read human beings exceptionally well. From the way their eyes narrowed, the way their pupils widened marginally, to the gap of their fingers...Y/n was trembling. He was thinking of what other lies he could say.

An adorable fool.

"You...?" He prompted. "You must not feel self conscious in the eyes of God. He already knows, Y/n. He is only waiting for you to confess."

I am only waiting for you to confess. To tell me that you are from the oracle.

"I cannot even recall it." Y/n admitted.

You cannot recall it because it is not true.

"What do people come here for, Father Anton?"

Many things.

"The ones who have sinned so awfully they are made to be sacrifices."

Oh. Sacrifices. Anton did not even—

There were times he would stand before dead bodies, blood in his hand, blinking slowly. When? When had he killed them? It all happened so fast, he wasn't even aware of the blood staining his clothes, the bodies riddled on the ground.

"You tell, me Y/n."

"Murder...?"

Anton wanted to laugh. A textbook answer. Y/n had much to learn, didn't he? It was alright. Anton could teach him. Teach him from ground zero, til Y/n would become who he was supposed to be.

"Mostly, it's their lack of faith. Rebelling against us. It is their perceived lack of loyalty, and their utter ignorance and disregard for God that leads us to take drastic measures."

"But that's...that's killing isn't it?"

So pure. So untainted, so innocent.

"Sometimes I forget you are a new, naive believer. God is perfect, is he not? So his messengers, in turn, can do no wrong. He sends his messages through me. God is part of me. I'm merely ridding the world of evil." Anton strode to where Y/n was, and his hands touched the top of Y/n's head lightly. His fingers soon fell to his cheek, and stroked it tenderly.

The oracle. The person from the oracle.

"But that doesn't matter," Anton said softly, "you show a desire to learn. And that is always very splendid, always welcomed."

Y/n was shaking. Like a newborn lamb.

Anton smiled.

PRESENT

"I'm back," Y/n called out softly.

He was worried it was quiet at first—too quiet, before a flurry of movement appeared before him, and Lucas swung his arms around Y/n.

"Father!" He nuzzled his head into Y/n's chest, and Y/n kissed his head gently, "why did you take so long?"

Y/n didn't even want to think of what had happened, or the feel of Anton's velvety, smooth lips on his own. Neither did he want to think of his sister's hurt, haunted look—and her words. Oh, her words. Her stinging words. Was Y/n really growing to be like his parents? It couldn't be the case, could it? He treated Lucas so lovingly—he cherished the boy. He would sacrifice his life for the boy.

"Things happened." Y/n said vaguely. "Come. Do you want a bedtime story? I see you have done all your work. Good job." He ruffled Lucas's hair.

"Let's eat together first!" Lucas beamed, taking Y/n's hands in his and dragging him to the table. "The foods' getting cold."

"You haven't eaten yet?" Y/n's face widened in surprise. "Lucas, it's been hours."

"Well, I wanted to wait for you..." Lucas mumbled. "Sorry, was I not supposed to?"

Y/n's heart warmed at Lucas's gesture, and he smiled affectionately. "No, sweetheart. You did great. Let's eat together, shall we?"

He picked up the spoon, absentmindedly scooping a spoonful of soup, bringing it into his mouth and swallowing. It had gone cold—but by no means was unpleasant. Or perhaps Y/n was just starving; perhaps the emotional toll had been him hungry and exhausted, and now his body was craving for food. Y/n couldn't help but marvel at the innocence and purity that radiated off Lucas—from the way his eyes sparkled with each bite, the way his gestures were animated and enthusiastic, even the way he spoke.

I'm not like our parents. Not at all, Y/n thought quietly, they were monsters. I'm not anything like...

Y/n caused the deaths of multiple.

Y/n killed someone.

Y/n dragged his sister into this world.

How could he even be called human anyone?

"—Father!" Lucas called, "are you okay? You look...tired. Exhausted. Have you been working late?"

Working? Y/n wanted to scoff. I wish. But instead I'm trying to survive. He finished his soup silently, and placed the spoon down. His heart ached when he watched Lucas peacefully finish the last of his dinner—hypothetically, if Y/n died—who would be able to provide for him? See, that was the double edged sword—Y/n was now sheltering Lucas in a haven, safe from the atrocities of the world. There was no doubt the small child had already experienced horrors that Y/n would not even dare think of: but to rip him from the safety and comfort of the home that Y/n had slowly curated for him into somewhere darker, more sinister...

Another reason to live, wasn't it? But that would mean he would have to remain in the game. And that wasn't very ideal. Y/n would have to find a way to get Lucas out. And his sister—

"I think I'll go to bed, Father." Lucas finished his meal, standing up. He hugged Y/n tightly, almost like he didn't want to let go—almost if he knew Y/n was on the brink of a breakdown. Had it been obvious? From the eyebags, from the weariness that refused to leave him?

"Rest well," Lucas mumbled.

"Rest well too, my dear child. You don't need—"

"I love you," Lucas interrupted quietly. "Thank you for all this, Father. I know it must have been hard..." he twiddled with his hands, biting his lip.

Oh. Y/n had to swallow back the tears and choked up sobs.

Oh. Someone saw his pain. Someone acknowledged it.

Y/n bent to Lucas's height, cradling his face. Y/n was trembling, he was aware of it—and tears were already forming in his eyes. It was like someone had broken a dam—finally, someone treated him as human. Someone...

"Please don't cry, Father..." Lucas reached out to Y/n's eyes, "don't cry."

As Y/n held Lucas, the floodgates of emotion burst out, releasing every single emotion he had felt—the pent up sorrow, the accumulated despair...he clung to the precious child, thankful for the warmth of genuine affection.

Lucas. Lucas was the anchor that tethered Y/n to the humanity he feared that he had lost.

"It's no problem at all," Y/n sobbed, "it's no problem at all."

I'll find a way, Y/n promised to himself. For all of us to escape.

Lucas.

Ally.

Himself.

A way to escape this game.