𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒 .

. Cereberus

— No one is going to see this. But I thought it'd be a shame to let it decay into regret.
Hope you like the references. The game is kinda fun again —trying new things/attempting to improve (which is why this even exists)
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It wasn't as if you intended for this to happen.

Words spread, people lie, gossip—allow their tongues to do the occupation their brains were made for, one syllable leads to another, and now here you stand—well, sit. On occasion.

Word of mouth is unpredictable, like a lake, idle, unmoving—until a mere ripple sends the palpable water hurdling down a waterfall of unfamiliarity, obscuring innocence, iterating, diluting—syllables spiralling into words that have fermented into an acidic taste on the posterior part of your tongue, when such words were conjured to be as inviting as a melliferous flower, or as passing as a gush of scorned wind. Instead, these moieties wash up on a exerted blanket of sand, laid bare and tantalising in all it's bitter glory.

Now here you stand, one riotous foot in front of the other, the echoes from the soles of your shoes reverberating from the walls made of asphalt, each step meeting your ears in a reminder, a taunt almost.

Though you paid it no mind. You never intended for this to happen, after all.

Just as you hadn't intended for your vision to end up eradicating a Fontainian soldier of his eyebrows.

You almost recalled Monsieur Nevuillette even smiling—or displaying what was closest to a smile, when you were accused of said crime.

You considered it blasphemy, denying a proud member of the people, of the community, the right to display what was benevolently bestowed upon them. Instead, you are shunned, scrutinised, forced to retire in the deepest pits of justice, where watchful eyes served as the sun that resided—haughty and boastful, in the blue blanket of lies above.

At that moment, you considered a juvenile life in the land of freedom—where justice is decided by the direction the wind blooms, or when the wolves howl their melody. It would settle better than watching your jurisdiction be declared by a man too inhumane for his own azureous good.

A year is what you got—half is what you paid.

Each step was tantalising, a stake served on a silver platter, medium-rare, dark, rowdy and yet warm, bare, and vulnerable.

You couldn't rid yourself of the thought of this being the day you were shunned by the incognito of these depths of justice—that in these walls forged by steel, clad in iron, would finally reacquire his rationale, that he would finally come to terms with this orchestra of cat and mouse, or finally tire from dismissing that which he knows to be true. That life is only soluble when following order,  when guarding gluttons in a circle of fire, not submitting to a game serving only fools who possess life that is yet to be lived.

The echo from your soles forbid this umbrage, only growing louder in rebuttal, each audible clank bestowed upon your ears shrieked with defiance, a laugh that bled with brash. If you were truly a victim of shame, a prey to a web weaved by your own touch—you would've defied said rebuttal and walked back through those doors of iron holding even the smallest semblance of moral philosophy.

You continued on, ignoring the fluffy appendage that sat between your legs, who lengthened with each thought and clank of rebuttal. As one doesn't walk into a ball of fire not knowing they'll be brunt.

Clink, Clank, pause, Clank, Clink.

Same broken record, same symphony, same waltz—step forward, step back, slide, left, right, left. In a display of benevolence, something learned from the duke of Meropis himself, these myriad thoughts came to a halt, replacing themselves with a simulacrum of said Duke of Benevolence—forward, step back, slide. A boundless wreath that shackles oneself to the forefront of your mind.