Saints of Sin

"No Sir, Sorry Sir."

Hey everyone!! So this chapter is a bit darker than the previous ones, so keep reading at your own risk! I'll put a brief summary of what happened at the end of the chapter so if you don't feel comfortable reading it you can still figure out what's going on.

TW: Self deprecation, self hate, abuse, and general torment. It's not too graphic, it's just really negative and I'm giving my trauma baby bean some issues.

Uhhh happy reading?
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Andrés had been awake for hours before the alarm rang, lying in bed with his heart pounding in his chest. The darkness of the room pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating, as if the walls themselves were closing in. He had hoped, futilely, that today might be different-that maybe, just maybe, today he could prove himself.
Prove that he was more than the disappointment the man he called father seemed to see in him. Prove that he could be useful, worthy, something other than the failure he knew himself to be.

The alarm's piercing scream shattered the silence, jarring him from his thoughts.
Andrés didn't need to be told to get up. He moved mechanically, his body already running on the autopilot that had been drilled into him from a young age. He dressed quickly, each movement precise, robotic, as if the very act of dressing himself was another test he could fail. His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt, his mind replaying the events of the previous day over and over again, each mistake magnified in his memory.

The training room was cold-colder than usual, it seemed. The walls, a stark, sterile white, seemed to close in on him as he stood in the center of the room, waiting for the inevitable. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, the tension coiling in his chest like a spring wound too tight. The man he called father stood off to the side, his face a mask of stern indifference, eyes hard and unreadable. Andrés couldn't bring himself to meet those eyes, couldn't bear the disappointment he knew he would find there.
But it wasn't the man who frightened him the most. It was the instructor-the man who took a sick pleasure in every ounce of pain he inflicted, who seemed to thrive on Andrés's suffering. He was already there, pacing slowly, a twisted smile curling at the edges of his thin lips. His eyes glinted with malice, as if he could already taste the agony he was about to inflict.

"Late again," the instructor sneered, though Andrés knew he wasn't. He had been there on time, exactly as expected. But the instructor always found something, some excuse to tear him down. "Pathetic. You think you can waltz in here, playing dress-up like you're something you're not, and get away with it?"
Andrés bit his tongue, the sharp sting of pain grounding him, reminding him to stay silent. The instructor thrived on reactions, on the fear and anger and despair that he could draw out like blood from a wound. Andrés had learned, over countless torturous sessions, that the only way to survive was to give as little as possible. But even then, it was never enough.

"You think you're special, don't you, 'boy?'" The instructor's voice was venomous, each word laced with a cruelty that made Andrés's stomach twist. "You think you can fool anyone? You're just a freak—a pathetic excuse for a human. You'll never be anything else."

The words were like knives, each one slicing into the fragile armor Andrés had built around himself. His breath hitched, but he forced himself to stay still, to keep his face blank, even as the instructor's words burrowed deep into his mind, festering like a wound.

"Answer me!" The instructor's voice cracked like a whip, and Andrés flinched despite himself.

"No, sir," Andrés replied, his voice barely above a whisper, his throat dry and tight.

"No, sir, what?" The instructor stepped closer, his breath hot against Andrés's face, filled with the scent of cigarettes and something bitter.

"No, sir, I don't think I'm special," Andrés forced the words out, each one tasting like ash.