𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 | ✓

TWENTY THREE.

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[ information is omitted. ]
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The main purpose of the oracle is to...
Darkness. Then the screen glitched one more time, and there was darkness that clouded Y/n's vision for a while, before he finally managed to see.

What was that?

The screen was trying to tell him something, that much was clear. But what? Y/n was growing so sick and tired of him needing answers and never managing to get any of them. It had been right at his nose—if he could have just grabbed it, then perhaps—perhaps he could have—

Who was he kidding? Y/n gave a sharp laugh. Here, he was a mercy to everything. The system, the people, the game—Anton.

The priest.

His body still throbbed as a solemn, bitter and horrid reminder of that night. Anton had yet to call him again for sexual favors, since somehow the priest had been so fucking backwards and had chosen to be gentle after the brutality had already been done during the sex itself, and was apparently taking note of Y/n's body condition.

There had been terrifyingly good kisses that Y/n had found himself melting into—before he would realize who he was kissing and immediately push the priest away in a frenzy, hatred burning in his eyes.

"Ah." Anton would smile. "I thought we had a deal."

Y/n's obedience—his full devotion towards the priest in exchange for Lucas's safety. It was strange that Anton would view him as his Savior, his God, yet it would all be so contradictory as Anton saw himself as the God. It was like two people resided in him: though the way he was treated was the very same.

Y/n glanced at the clock. 4:58pm, it read. Anton and him met at 5.00pm sharp at his house. Dreading it, Y/n kissed a sleeping Lucas goodbye, and sighed as he left the room.

The journey was beginning to be familiar to him, from his house to Anton's own. The winding of the lanes, the way the trees almost seemed to taunt Y/n with their hollow, thin and prickly branches, almost cutting him when he brushed past them. The way the stones and pebbles crackled under his feet, the sound almost too close to the way the crimson, orange flames crackled as they killed everything in sight. The heat from that day his sister was—was murdered—was still something he remembered; it has coated his skin with a later of sticky sweat, he had felt himself growing warmer and warmer, the air turning more humid and less pleasant, the way he could almost taste the smoke on his tongue in billows and in drifts. And this journey seemed to remind him of it, with the way the heat continued to stubbornly press on his skin.

Y/n did not even need to knock. Gently, he opened the door, allowed himself to be led by silent servants, all averting his gaze, before he arrived at the familiar tearoom, where Anton had literally attempted to drug him. The portrait of his family this time, however, was absent, and Anton almost seemed...disturbed? Annoyed, even if it was vague and that smile was still stuck on his face? Whatever it was, Y/n was surprised to see that for once, the priest had almost seemed to shed that flawless persona of his and there was something more humane in his eyes, even if it was negative emotions. Y/n just knew—after plenty of time spent with the priest: the furrow of his eyebrows, though extremely rare, meant that the priest was agitated. By what? The war? No, that couldn't be.

"Where's the..." Y/n looked around, "family portrait? Didn't you have one?"

And there was a certain scent in the air. It was pleasant, sweet, and tempting. Was it the tea set on the table elaborately?