Sick to his stomach.

Y/n felt sick to his stomach. When would this vicious cycle end? When—when would this game end? Death only seemed like an inviting answer—a welcoming end to the beginning of a fall from grace. He could sink into Mother Death's embrace, breathe in her scent of mottled bodies and broken souls, and walk into the land of Tartarus. No. Hell was here. He was already in hell.

Drugs. Drugs. Looks like Y/n had underestimated Anton. Yes, he knew the priest could kill...yes, he very well knew what kind of person Anton was, but he never expected Anton would do anything harmful to him. At most, Y/n had thought it would be the people of the church who would have harmed him, or Sister Helen, but no. Anton had actively drugged him—for what? For him to truly die, or whatever the drug was meant for, or was this a test? To see if he was immune?

"Hm," Anton tilted his head, "you look rather pale and unwell. What's wrong?"

Y/n's eyes were glued to the tea. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, and his hands turned clammy.

Don't—don't, don't, don't, don't. Don't look at me.

He wanted to cry. He really wanted to cry.

"This tea..." Anton smiled, and Y/n could hear his fingers tapping on the porcelain cup in a swift, rhythmic movement—tap, tap, tap—"this tea was rather rare to get. Apparently they use it for poison in other countries. It's like a little game of luck. Some hybrids are fine. Some hybrids are poisonous."

"Why did you give this to me?" Y/n's voice trembled, "if you knew there was a chance it would kill me—if you—I thought you..."

"Why, my dear," Anton's voice was soft, and oozed with a sinister, dazed delight, "I simply assumed you would be lucky enough to not be poisoned. From the looks of it, you seem to be fine. Just what I expected from you."

That's because the item I obtained managed to nullify the effects! Y/n wanted to scream, but instead he painfully swallowed the words back down. He mustered up a shaky, wobbly smile that felt like it might melt off his face at any moment—and stood up.

"I think I'll get going first," Y/n whispered. He stumbled over his chair, his breaths becoming erratic and heavy.

Away. Away. Away. Away. He had to get away from this monster. As fast as possible.

Anton's gaze followed Y/n's unsteady movements with a chilling satisfaction, the corners of his mouth curling into a malevolent smile. He almost seemed disappointed at Y/n's quick leave, but as usual, it was cloaked with a perfect expression of beauty.

God had its favorites. Who would have thought that God would welcome the very demon that he has tossed away?

Y/n's steps faltered, his legs threatening to buckle under the weight of Anton's unnerving stare. He could read him. He knew. He knew. He knew—

Y/n turned, brought one foot after another. Walking became something he had to be conscious of—putting one leg in front, placing weight on it, doing the same thing with the other leg...was this an effect of fear or some other drug? Had the item effectively nullified everything properly? He stumbled out of the luxuriously furnished manor—the pure satisfied look on Anton's face lingering—etched in his mind.

Be alert and of a sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.

And that someone was him. If Y/n was poisoned, would he have died? Would his lungs have rotted away, his breaths shuddered away as Anton took delight in his demise? Cold sweat clung on to his quivering skin—visceral, exquisite dread gripped onto his mind—threatening to tear it open with its violent hunger.

Spare me, a sob erupted from Y/n's body as he crouched down, oh, god. In this world, you are the most important. Are you real? Please. Why do you ignore me? Why do you continue to bless the devil?

Copper burst in his tongue. The unfamiliar, metallic tang of blood lingered in his mouth—like a bitter secret refusing to be swallowed. Anton had already made an indelible imprint on his mind; even—even if he returned to his world...even if, he would continue to haunt his dreams and turn them into nightmares.

Y/n slowly stood up. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he walked forward, forward, then forward...all sense of time was lost to him. It was almost like Anton had carved a hole in him—made him hollow so nothing would ever make him happy again. The world here has always seemed so distant—but now it appeared through a gauzy, dark veil.

Despondent.

Hopeless.

Hopeless...

Quiet sobs racked Y/n's body. It was becoming hard to live for someone. He had to live for Lucas—but...but...

It was getting hard. Home no longer seemed inviting. Why would he bother going there? Why? To the same hell, but just purgatory?

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit—

A knife barely skimmed passed through his cheek; barely grazing him. A drop of red splattered onto the pristine floor, and Y/n's breath caught in his throat. It was sure to be Anton. Sure to be Anton, who had deceived him this whole time and was planning to kill him—

Y/n stilled at the stranger before him. It was a scruffy old man, holding a knife and pointing it menacingly at him. Strangely, he seemed familiar; but Y/n couldn't quite place his finger on it. A NPC, perhaps.

Wait.

Wait....

His memories of the game. Why didn't he remember it anymore? It was his only advantage. His only. And now were they all slowly getting washed away? Did they really intend for Y/n to assimilate into this world, to make himself belong in this world?

No. He would never belong to this world. He was not a murderer. He would never be a murderer.

Y/n's breath hitched.

"Why?" The man's voice, rough and weathered, cut through the air like a blade—"why you? Why does Priest Anton only choose to bless you, and only you? You vermin," He hissed, "you vermin. You are a sinner, yet..."

"I don't know," Y/n whispered, "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know anything. Please. Please. You..."

Who knew the answers? Not him, for sure.

The man lunged—Y/n barely even noticed it as it came flying towards him—he barely noticed as silent tears fell from his cheek and his eyes stared off at a distance. He stood like a mere puppet—a mere rag doll. What even was his purpose in the game? To serve as cruel entertainment? To die?

If he just stayed put, the blade would pierce through his heart. The blade would kill him. And that was what he wanted, wasn't it?

"Father Y/n."

Y/h stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding the blade. His pulse quickened, and his thoughts rose with frantic rhythm.

"Why?" The man demanded once more, "why are you the chosen one? Why does Priest Anton shower you with such grace, while the rest of us get neglected? It's you. Always you..."

Desperate, Y/n evaded further and retreated into the narrow valley. If he died right here, if he just died right here...Lucas would be alone, wouldn't he? He would get killed. His precious, darling son would get killed.

"Answer me!"

"Stop," Y/n said weakly, "I don't know. I don't know. I already told you that I don't know..." There were no other options. Death was incoming. His body was paralyzed, his mind blank.

There were no options.

No options.

No options...

"I'll be back soon," was what he told Lucas. He had promised him. Because there was a way.

A way...

"Fuck," Y/n murmured under his breath. Quickly aiming a sharp blow to the man's side, he snatched the knife out of his hand. Then he raised it—

No way, Y/n laughed to himself, no way, right? He wasn't that kind of person. He would never, ever kill someone! He wasn't...some sort of evil demon like Anton...

With a sudden surge of strength, Y/n propelled the knife downward. The world, for an instant, stilled.

Then reality shattered.

The blade found its mark, pressing deep into the man. Silence enveloped the ally, and Y/n was frozen. The knife clattered on the ground, and Y/n crumpled onto the floor below. Oh shit. Oh shit!

The floor was stained with crimson. The air was heavy with the smell of blood; unforgiving and once confined within flesh, it was now spilling forth. There was so much of it. So much. It was almost like a butcher's warehouse; except...the crimson pooled. It held a horrific beauty—a clear visceral display of Y/n's sins.

His crime.

No. He would never belong to this world. He was not a murderer. He would never be a murderer...

Oh, but Y/n was. He was a murderer. His breath stumbled into dissonance. Each breath almost seemed...laborious. His chest rose up and down, and Y/n stared at the body with alarming clarity.

Sinner.

Sinner.

Sinner.

Sinner.

Oh, Y/n was

A sinner.

He tried to move. Tried to distance himself from the visceral scene. But his limbs were suffocatingly heavy. So heavy.

You were always capable of horrid things, his mother had told him before. Her words had been like fire, scorching his skin with a violent sort of fury.

Proverbs 28:17. A man tormented by the guilt of murder will be a fugitive til death; let no one support him.

Y/n stood up. He walked. He lifted a pail of water. He took a cloth.

He stood before the body.

And his legs sank beneath him.

He had to cover this up. Y/n had to cover this up—had to cover up the sheer volume of blood and the body. The damned body. Oh, but it had all been for Lucas, hadn't it? Or was it just an excuse? Y/n was no longer innocent. Would Lucas be able to smell the horrible stench of blood on him? Of murder?

The alley's silence was shattered by a languid applause.

Anton.

Anton stepped inside with unsettling elegance.

"Well," He purred, "what do we have here, Y/n? A tragic performance."

The cloth, stained with the mingling of water and blood, hung limply in his grasp.

"Tell me," Anton continued, his voice a silky caress, "what were you planning to do?"

Anton. Anton, Anton. Kill Anton. Kill Anton. Kill Anton.

Y/n's breaths came in ragged breaths.

Anton came to him—ignored the tremors and shivers of Y/n's body, and knelt next to the (h/c)-haired man. His hands grasped Y/n's. They were both holding the knife.

He was close. So close. Y/n could feel his breaths next to him, behind his ear.

"Hm," Anton mused softly—gently, "he was a pest. Do you see now? The lines of savior and sinner are gray. Do you finally understand? It is only with me that you are safe. Truly safe. Why did you have to rush out in such a hurry? I've told you from the very start: I'll guide you. You don't have to worry about a single thing with me around..."

Tears slipped from Y/n's ear. He felt hollow; he felt nothing.

He didn't—he didn't even feel human anymore. After all, his very hands had taken someone's life.

"It wasn't your fault."

It wasn't his fault. Wasn't his fault. Wasn't his fault. Yes. It was true. It was self defense...

"Oh, you poor thing," Anton cooed, "come here." He brought his arms around to a shuddering Y/n. Y/n found himself nestled into the embrace of the priest, but he didn't move.

Nothing. No more hate, no more love. He was tired. He was so tired.

Anton brought his face to close with Y/n, and cupped his face.

"You understand, don't you?" Anton whispered.

Y/n's tear streaked face remained impassive.

Anton's fingers delicately traced the Y/n's skin. Y/n's eyes followed his movement, but made no attempt to resist. The priest's lips brushed against Y/n's ear, and that jolted Y/n to answer. The remnants of humanity seemed to slip through his fingers, slowly and slowly and slowly...

Y/n parted his lips.

"I understand."