𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

FOURTEEN

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.