𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

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CHAPTER EIGHT

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CHAPTER EIGHT

**

Y/n recoiled.

"No, no!" He screamed, banging at the doors. "Let me out. Let me out. Let me out!"

Where was he? Where the hell was this? Y/n didn't know if the tears that were starting to stream down his cheeks was because of the overpowering smell inside, from what, he didn't know. He just hoped there weren't any mangled corpses, any dead bodies...he felt another scream of terror escape him before his knees betrayed him, and he fell onto the ground.

"...Please," Y/n's voice cracked. "Please..."

There was no one. Y/n's fingers found dirt hidden in the floor cracks, and his throat was parched, as if trying desperately to find air. Just some air.  He needed something — an anchor. But Y/n found nothing, and in the end dug his own fingernails into his skin once again, never stopping until he felt the crescents of his nails tattooed onto flesh. His head burned; his mind felt dulled. Maybe I'll die here so early in the game, Y/n thought numbly. Then fresh panic erupted again. Or maybe...

There was a smell evading his nostrils. It was sickly sweet, and when masking the weird smell in the air that seemed like death, it was putrid, unpleasant. And oddly familiar.

The lilies...? They seem familiar....?

His mind reeled, words started to form. Words he didn't want to listen to were flooding his brain.

Anton, he thought, Anton. Anton. Anton. I need him. I need him. Oh, god, I need him.

(Perhaps this was the priest's plan this whole time. To turn Y/n's anger and animosity to loyalty by force.)

Y/n didn't know what it was that made him seek Anton so desperately, like he was starved of touch — in this attic, he yearned for it — he longed to feel the priests's tender fingers against him, touching him, allowing him...

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