Absolutely no one had free will in this world. They all followed the game mechanics blindly, the same way they drank in Anton's words, never once doubting them. The man Y/n had murdered was apparently some outcast in society; some lunatic. All it took for Anton to proclaim that, then it was true. His word was law. His words were true.

Essentially, Anton had saved him from dying. He had protected him...in a cruel manner. The thought had fleeted to Y/n's mind then: that perhaps he had orchestrated it all. Perhaps he had led the man to where Y/n was, gave him the knife, told him what to say.

Perhaps he had wanted Y/n to grovel at his knees and beg for his forgiveness. Perhaps Anton wanted Y/n to depend on him, now that he had stolen and had ruthlessly tore everything away from him: his sanity, his morals, the tiny glimmer of hope that was now distant.

Everything.

And what could Y/n do about it? He was utterly helpless in the situation. There weren't any quests that were currently given to him, he didn't really have anything in his inventory, he didn't know how many levels he needed to level up in order for him to escape.

Was escaping...was escaping even an option?

Even now, the way Anton held him—it was supposed to be comforting, but the cold grip around his waist only seemed to tell him: you are at my mercy. And that was true.

First, Freda who had insulted him.

Sick and left out.

Second, Mills.

Killed, with his blood used to stain the white roses.

Helen, who had disappeared.

Peter, who had died.

The man, who Y/n had killed—murdered.

There were so many victims. So many of them. Anton had ripped their lives away mercilessly, and didn't even bat an eye. He committed atrocious sins and assumed he would be excused because of who he was—because he believed he was God. And the horrible thing was that perhaps he would never be punished by heaven's hands. He would get away with it; purely because the world forgave him.

Anton's eyes were piercing, intense. In the mirror perhaps he didn't see the reflection of a mere mortal—he saw a regal visage of a sovereign. The God of his world. They gazed at Y/n with an unknown emotion; Y/n would have called it tender, but he knew such an emotion couldn't possibly have existed in Anton.

The priest was a monster. A fucking monster. To watch him was to witness a performance on the grand stage of his own creation, where everything followed his ideals.

Anton spoke. He spoke not in sentences but in decrees, for in his divine lexicon, there existed no room for dissent. There existed no one who could ever disagree with him.

"What did killing a man feel like? How did killing a sinner feel like, Y/n?" Anton even had the audacity to ask, even when Y/n was shaking and trembling all over. He was still stained with blood, his hair was wet and pressed against his neck, his eyes were puffy from crying.

To be Anton's presence was to stand on the precipice of reverence. To worship him—that was the only thing the priest allowed.

"...Horrible," Y/n finally whispered, his voice barely audible. The truth—the truth he had killed a man was clawing at his mind, digging into corners and engulfing him in guilt.

He was a murderer now. Y/n had become a sinner. He was forcibly placed into Anton's debt.

"A darkness." Y/n trembled, "...it felt like darkness was swallowing me whole. I killed him, Father Anton. I robbed him of his life. And—"

Y/n would still be a murderer if he returned home. The claws would be stuck on him. The burden would remain.

If things continued the way they were...

Anton's lips curled into a sardonic smile, satisfaction emanating from him. Y/n's hands curled into fists.

If only. If only. If only. If only.

"He deserved it."

"He deserved it," Y/n repeated numbly. "Did he really?"

Whatever fragile humanity, he still wanted to keep. To preserve.

"Deserving or not, that matters little in this world." Anton said carelessly, "why should you care, Y/n? He attacked you first. He wielded the knife."

Y/n let out a strangled gasp. His breaths were uneven, his chest hollow like someone had forcibly stuck a knife and created a hole.

"Do you still remember our first confession? Your first confession?"

Of course Y/n did. Even the scent of the flickering candles were not lost to him, and neither were the stained glass windows which had shone light in the priest. Y/n has thought then that Anton couldn't have been that bad.

"What did you say then?" Anton gently prodded.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Y/n whispered.

"God is merciful." Anton responded, "he will grant you the grace of contrition."

"I killed someone," Y/n took a shuddering breath, "Father Anton, I...I took a life. You saw me killing him. You saw."

"So I did."

"Ah, but God forgives everyone, no matter what." Anton smiled—that smile twisted in Y/n's stomach. It was so wrong; so horrifying that the priest could smile in this situation, even with his attire dyed red. The white had been stained by the blood. "Life is a fragile gift, isn't it? One moment you have it...one moment you don't."

Matthew 6:14-15 (NIV): For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.

Did this mean that Y/n had to forgive Anton first, before he would be forgiven? Forgive the priest's plain cruelty, malice?

"Humans are weak. So awfully weak," Anton's fingers stroked Y/n's blood stained cheek, making his fingers red, "they are vulnerable to the slightest perturbation...their bones, supposed to be sturdy and strong, can break so easily, and even then, they cradle the fragility of flesh. Blood can be spilled so easily. In the end, is it your fault because the man was so weak?"

"Father Anton..."

"There is such a delicate balance between birth and death. Life will blossom, only to wither and return to the earth from which it came. Where it belongs, for the sinners."

"I was once a sinner, Father Anton." Y/n said shakily, "you said it yourself. You—life has inherent value. If you are truly so...so benevolent, wouldn't you strive to prove it?"

Digging his grave. Y/n was very well digging his grave.

Anton chuckled, a sound utterly devoid of mirth.

"Now value, my sweet, is a subjective concept. The weak perish. The strong prevail. It's only natural."

Anton's fingers traced the line of Y/n's jaw, the touch both possessive and invasive. "You are a survivor. The savior. The blessed. The perfect example of the person I wish I had. The oracle was right..."

Oracle. Y/n stiffened. "What do you...what do you mean by that?"

Anton's smile deepened.

"I had a feeling you would ask that. The oracle foresaw your ascent. The chosen one to fulfill what the world needs. What I need. You are what I need. What I desire," Anton whispered. "You are exactly what I..."

The fragility of free will was something that Y/n clung on to—and now it shattered.

"You said you understood. You said you would let me guide you, even as you crouched over the dead body, even when you shivered in my arms, like you are doing now."

Insidious. Insidious. Y/n realized belatedly: maybe the priest truly felt Y/n held some snippet of affection for him. His plan—his plan. It was still essential to survive, as could be seen from the recent events. Without Anton's fucking—his fucking biasedness, Y/n would have been long gone. But even that was a double edged sword.

He had become a vessel of Anton's visions, an object of desire; obsession. At first, it was infatuation. Or even just interest. But then Y/n had allowed it to morph into what it was now; a hunger, a flame that threatened to devour anything in sight.

"For you, I will even stand that child," Anton murmured, "Lucas...he is marvelous. Intelligent, and with intelligence comes cunning. He has plenty of potential."

"He is young," Y/n said desperately, "he is not old enough to be involved in the church."

"Oh, but he already is, is he not?" Anton's whispered words were sweetened. "He is associated with me, and who else has a higher position than me in the church?"

Was this...baby trapping—what the fuck?

"He adores you, Y/n." Anton hummed, "you really left a lasting impression on him. So I wonder, my dear, sometimes I truly wonder: when you run away, when you try to run away, will you leave him behind? Was that not what happened the last time, with Peter?"

He knew his name. He knew the name of the knights, he knew the name of the knights he had slaughtered.

"You see, I have a rather remarkable memory. I remember everyone—the people I've cleansed. Their wretched faces, their dirtied names. Sinners run rampant in the world, don't you think?"

"...Yes," Y/n said in defeat, giving up. He let his whole body sag against the priests, ignoring how stupidly warm it was.

Everything about the priest felt so right, yet so wrong. Was this what the priest had planned all along? To take away everything from Y/n so Y/n only depended on him alone, until Y/n could only survive with him? Stockholm syndrome was something Y/n had seen before, on the news.

It was a way to cope with the situation—when the victim formed a bond with the captor for a survival strategy. Check. If the victim was isolated from outside perspectives, or support system, they were more likely to form a bond. Check. If the victim felt that they have no means of escape or that their escape attempts were futile. Check.

Y/n closed his eyes. Everything was starting to hurt. It was starting to hurt so goddamn much.

He knew this was bad, this was beyond bad. Having some sort of dependency on someone he hated; even sharing a bond, no matter how warped it was, was horrid. He didn't want to be a victim. Y/n didn't want this. He didn't—if he was aware of it, then surely he didn't have it, right?

I can't do this anymore. I can't. I can't. I can't.

"You have no idea the extent of the fondness I hold for you," Anton pressed a kiss on Y/n's forehead, "and oh, what would it be like to break you? Would you be docile, then? Would you be like a lamb?"

Y/n looked up at him tiredly. No. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to accept this.

He had to. Y/n had to fight Anton...he had to...

Anton leaned forward. They were a hair's breadth away.

"You are so perfect," Anton murmured, "so, so divine. So perfect.."

Y/n swallowed. There was no way, right? No fucking way—

"I want to kiss you."

"...If I say no, you wouldn't listen."

A kiss. It would just be a kiss, right? That was okay. It meant simply brushing his lips against Anton's...yeah, that was possible.

Anton pressed his lips on Y/n's. It was a mixture of heat and warmth; the way Anton ravaged his lips had some sort of twisted hunger to it, craving and craving and craving. There was a obscene sheen of saliva coating Y/n's lips when they parted.

The kiss tasted like the forbidden fruit, plucked from the tree of desire. It was the same way that Eve had sinned—eating a fruit that had belonged to the serpent. It was as if Y/n had forged a pact with the devil himself—that in kissing Anton, it was like sealing his fate in the molten wax of sin. Y/n...Y/n had stained the canvas of his soul. Had matted it black.

It was shameful. So utterly shameful that the kiss...

Anton was good at kissing. Y/n had melted against his lips; had unwillingly relaxed. Warning signals immediately ran off on his head.

The plan. The plan. The plan. The plan. The plan. The plan. The plan. The plan. The plan. The

.

P

L

A

N

?

.

.

Morality became an obsolete concept.

When they finally broke away, Y/n immediately closed his eyes. The horror—the plain, unadulterated horror he felt immediately washed over him.

A sin—a sin—

"Oh, no. This isn't a sin. Loving someone isn't a sin."

"The texts say a priest—a divine messenger of god loving a sinner is one." Y/n said desperately, "Father Anton. Anton—"Y/n's voice was cut off when his lips were once again ravaged by the man in front of him. Anton's arms were like a vice-like grip, holding him.

"Don't ever think about running away, Y/n."

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣

"Are you alright, Father Y/n?" Lucas immediately ran towards Y/n when he had stumbled back home. His lips were swollen; bruised. Tears stained his cheeks, and he buried his head into Lucas's hair, breathing in the scent of his child. His arms cradled the confused boy.

Free will was a illusion here.

Y/n slumped on the ground. His plan had worked. His plan had worked. He ignored the hole in his heart, the tears that fell down his cheek. His words were jumbled, his tone raspy and weak. It worked. It worked. It worked. Y/n was—

His answer pulled slowly from his throat.

"I'm fine."

this chapter was prewritten, so i had to pretty much reread it to remember what i wrote. and gosh, that's messed up. i also want to state that Stockholm Syndrome  is a complex psychological response and not everyone in a hostage or abusive situation will develop it. I did as much research as I could, but if anything is wrong or harmful, please let me know and I'll immediately edit it. also note that the actions here are horrible and not to be glorified or romanticised. I know majority of people hate it when the MC develops some sort of "attachment" to the yandere, but please note that in no way this is romantic attachment. y/n hates anton as he rightfully should, and he is also aware of why he had this twisted attachment to Anton, which is because essentially, to get out of the game, he needs to be in Anton's good graces.