A tall figure in a crimson robe stepped into the room, his face concealed behind a mask with a long, upward-curving beak.
The chamber was unnaturally clean. Pristine. Not a speck of dust disturbed its surface.
Against the far wall stood a heavy table. Beside it, a smaller desk cluttered with tools — saws, scissors, blades — each one worn, some stained with the memory of past use.
The figure approached without hesitation.
He picked up a rusted saw.
For a brief moment, he held it in the air — then dragged it across the skin of his own hand.
The sound was wet. Deliberate.
Blood began to flow, thick and dark, dripping onto the floor. Yet it did not spread. The surface beneath seemed crafted for this very purpose, holding the liquid in place as if it had done so countless times before.
The door opened again.
A second figure entered — shorter, clad in a deep green robe. Without a word, he knelt and began collecting the blood into a worn wooden bowl. The wood was darkened, soaked from repeated use.
When it was full, he rose and handed it to the taller man.
Their hands never touched.
The red-robed figure took the bowl and began to speak.
The words were low. Unfamiliar. Twisted, as though shaped by a language long forgotten.
Slowly, he poured the blood onto the table, forming a circle. With careful precision, he drew a single line cutting through it from the right.
The green-robed figure handed him a piece of chalk.
Beneath the circle, the taller man drew a cross.
Then silence.
The shorter figure turned and left without another glance.
Moments later, the door burst open again.
Two figures dragged a body across the floor.
A man. Tall. Bearded. Dressed in a white robe now smeared with dirt.
They lifted him onto the table and stepped back.
The red-robed figure spoke again — the same incomprehensible tongue — before switching suddenly to Latin:
“Pater sanctissime, omnipotens creator caeli et terrae cum omni creatura vivente, defende hunc abominabilem ab ulterius proditionibus fraternitatis et purga eum a peccato proditionis.”
As the final word echoed, the door closed.
Now, only two remained.
The man in red.
And the man on the table.
The robed figure reached for a syringe filled with a thick, green liquid. Without hesitation, he drove it into the vein at the man’s neck.
Seconds passed.
The bearded man’s eyes snapped open.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
He did not even breathe differently.
It was as if his body no longer belonged to him.
The figure in red picked up a knife — its blade adorned with delicate carvings of flowers and fruit, grotesquely beautiful.
Slowly, almost reverently, he pressed it into the man’s chest.
The skin gave way.
Then flesh.
He cut deep, opening the body with careful precision, as though performing a sacred act rather than an act of violence.
When enough was revealed, he set the knife aside.
Another syringe.
This time, he plunged it directly into the exposed heart.
Dark blood filled the chamber of the instrument.
He withdrew it slowly, placing it beside the man’s left hand.
Then, with methodical calm, he began to sew the wound shut.
Thread through skin.
Pull.
Tighten.
Again.
And again.
When it was done, the body looked almost whole.
Almost.
For a moment, it seemed the ritual had ended.
But the door opened once more.
A third figure entered — taller than the rest, draped in long, trailing robes of deep purple that whispered across the floor.
Without a word, the figure approached, took the syringe filled with blood, and left.
No one stopped them.
No one spoke.
The red-robed man turned back to the body.
He bound the bearded man to the table with thick restraints.
Tight.
Secure.
Final.
Then he, too, left the room.
The door closed behind him.
And silence returned.
