What I seek is not vengeance.
No... vengeance is clean, finite. I want sothing far uglier. Pity revenge—the kind that leaves rot in its wake, that keeps breathing in the dark long after the blade’s been sheathed.
I don’t care for a satisfying end, the kind heroes boast about. I crave a dramatic one, the sort of end that drags the other person in deeper, even when they think they’ve escaped.
And I am sensitive—painfully, pathetically so. Your words, whether good or bad, pierce . A complint? I’ll cradle it like a fragile treasure for five seconds, then twist it into a suspicion: You must want sothing from . That’s the loop I live in—a snake eating its own tail, endlessly feeding the cycle.
I’ve always known the truth: I am disaster in waiting. I plant seeds without aning to, seeds that sprout into chaos months later when everyone’s forgotten who scattered them.
It’s why I preferred my solitude. Alone, in my room, buried in web novels, harming no one. No consequences when the only one you manipulate is yourself.
But that was before.
Now, I am an extra in a story that belongs to soone else. A side note in the book of the main character.
And extras don’t survive unless they make themselves indispensable—or dangerous. My survival isn’t just about living. It’s about steering the storm from the shadows. It’s about turning chaos into a leash I hold in my hand.
Call toxic. Call petty. Call the villain if it pleases you. I don’t give a damn. The only thing I care about—truly, desperately care about—is the constant itch of my unstable emotions. This cracked, festering heart of mine. And if it isn’t satisfied?
Then... hahahaha.
Two days later, the thoughts still swam in , jagged and sweet. Hunger pangs clawed faintly in my gut, a hollow pull from both my body and the thing inside .
I had been burning through blood like a miser spilling coin—carelessly, without asure. Wrapping the fresh bandage over my palm one final ti, I flexed the hand. The ember inside was low.
Too low.
[Ember: 10% → 8%]
A faint pulse in my vision, a warning flare of yellow.
"Conish was easy," I muttered, pacing in the cramped storeroom behind the bakery. The air was warm and yeasty, sweet from rising bread, but it felt suffocating to .
"John was easier—already knew , trusted . The fat baker hated him for so reason, so he opened up without having to push. I need more n..."
I trailed off mid-thought, that dry, aching thirst curling up my spine. It was always there, patient as a wolf, waiting for my attention to slip.
I considered the bigger pieces in play. The dangerous ones. Characters in this world who actually mattered.
My mind brought them up like cards in a deck, but I shoved them back into the pile. Every one of them led back to the main character, one way or another. Not yet. If I even looked his way, I’d need a wall of bodies between us.
Later.
"...I’ll grab a bite of Akidna before I hurt anybody," I murmured to myself. My voice sounded too quiet in the empty room. I pulled off the flour-streaked apron, slinging it over the counter.
"Aiden!"
The bakery chef’s voice snapped through the air before I’d even reached the door.
I turned, painting a practiced smile over my lips. "Yes, chef?"
His eyes were warm, heavy with an almost childlike sincerity. "Please don’t worry... I am with you." He struck his chest with a broad hand, the sound a dull thump.
Atlas. Loyal. Predictable.
I nodded slowly. "...Thank you. Don’t forget—we are strong..."
"Together."
"Together."
The word hung between us for a breath, and then he turned away to finish locking up. My own pulse was already climbing, not from camaraderie but from the itch that gnawed at when I stood still too long.
The mansion’s corridors breathed with low evening light as I walked them. I knew exactly where Akidna would be—issuing clipped orders to the younger servants, glancing at every crooked fra and unswept corner before Lady Flora descended.
The air here was cooler, sharper. I could sll polish and soap, hear the faint scuff of brushes over wood.
My gaze drifted upward, to where Flora’s room would be. A sour-sweet mory rose in my mouth.
One kiss away—that’s all she had been. She’d stopped at the very edge, not from innocence, but from knowing too well what I was. And knowing that once my thirst broke the surface, I wouldn’t stop.
Before I could even think of her again, there was another obstacle. Her knight in shining armor—Gail. That one I’d need to dismantle carefully.
The main hall should have held Akidna. Instead, I walked into the middle of sothing else entirely.
A cluster of nuns stood scattered across the marble, sunlight from the tall windows turning their white-and-black habits into stark lines of shadow and glare.
"...What’s happening?"
I turned to a servant sweeping the far wall. Middle-aged, wiry, with a mustache that looked almost combed into place. His eyes lit the instant he realized it was speaking to him.
"Oh, Aiden—it’s you." He straightened, puffing his chest just slightly. "The newly promoted High Nun has granted the mansion the blessing of the Lord." There was pride in his tone, like he had earned the favor.
"...Blessing?"
The word sat bitter on my tongue. A sudden, sharp thread of unease ran through . Holy presence here could go very wrong. Had they sensed my incubus aura? If they had...
No. I rembered the church. The healing. I’d felt no burn, no purging agony—only restoration, as though their so-called holy light had chosen not to reject .
And then he saw her.....
Amber.
She stood among them like a candle among stones—sa fra, sa green eyes, but now dressed differently. A finer uniform. Promotion, clearly. The others blended in their black-and-white habits, but she was marked. Chosen.
Our eyes t. For a second, sothing sharp passed between us. Then her cheeks flared red and she looked away, the movent almost too quick to be casual.
Nervous.
That was enough for . Akidna could wait. I had another prey now—and this one was already trembling at the sight of .
I lingered in the edges of the hall, watching the nuns work. They moved with quiet precision, sprinkling holy water along the doors and corners.
The scent of it—iron under fresh rain—brushed against my senses. I stayed patient. Hunting required patience.
Half an hour passed. My skin prickled with need. Finally, Amber found herself alone, the other nuns drifting toward the far wing.
I stepped out.
She saw . I saw her. And I closed the space between us slowly, deliberately, as though I had no designs at all. Only pureness showing outward, but inside....my sin hungers.
"Amber," I said her na like it was a secret.
Her shoulders tensed, but she kept her gaze politely down. "Aiden."
I smiled. Not warm. Not cold. Sothing in between—a smile that could an safety or danger depending on how closely you looked.
"Congratulations. High Nun now? That’s... quite the leap."
Her lips parted just slightly, like she’d expected to ignore her completely. "I—yes. The church saw fit to promote after the last rites. I’m... honored."
"Honored," I echoed, drawing the word out, tasting it. "Or burdened?"
Her eyes flicked up, startled, before darting away again. A blush crept along her neck. "It’s... an honor," she repeated, softer this ti.
"Mm." I stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough that she would feel the air shift between us. "Strange, though. Usually when the church sends their High Nuns into noble hos, it’s to cleanse sothing."
That landed. I saw the twitch in her jaw, the way her fingers tightened around the silver censer in her hand. "There’s nothing to cleanse here."
"Isn’t there?" My voice was all curiosity, but I could see the thought burrowing in her.
I knew her type—the devout, the ones taught to see darkness everywhere. And I knew exactly how to walk the line between tempting them and making them question their own faith.
We stood in silence for a breath too long, the faint smoke of her incense curling between us. It was sweet, but not overpowering. My eyes followed it until they landed back on her mouth.
"You’re trembling," I said quietly.
"I—no, I’m not—"
User Comments
0 comments from readers