Chapter Text
Cold, damp air pressed into Edgar’s skin as he stirred awake. He blinked slowly, the light above him swimming in and out of focus. A single bulb dangled from a string high above, casting a weak, flickering glow over his surroundings. The room was pale and bare, the walls dripping with condensation.
His arms were stretched wide, bound tightly to wooden beams with fraying ropes that cut deep into his wrists. Leather straps were cinched around his shoulders and abdomen, holding him upright against the crude structure. His legs were tied together, forcing his knees to buckle slightly. His body ached all over, and each movement sent sharp pain racing through him. The wires—God, the wires—bit into his flesh, leaving deep, angry welts he wouldn’t live to see heal.
It was a grotesque mockery of a crucifixion.
Edgar let out a shallow breath, his throat raw and sore. A memory flashed—blurry but distinct.
A presence. A shadow moving behind him.
The scent of burning wax and aged wood lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of incense. Shadows stretched long across the marble floor, flickering as candlelight wavered. Edgar knelt in the pew, his rosary around his neck as his fingers fiddle, each bead. Slipping through his touch like a lifeline. His lips moved in silent prayer, his head bowed in devotion.
He prayed for strength. For understanding. For something greater than himself to ease the burdens of the world.
His breath trembled as he exhaled.
Then a whisper of movement.
The sensation crept over his skin—an unnatural stillness that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.
Cold fingers ghosted over the nape of his neck. The touch was light at first, almost reverent. Before he could react, he felt something cold and solid get wrapped around his throat. The rosary. His own rosary, now a garrote cutting into his flesh.
Edgar gasped, his fingers flying to his neck as the necklace tightened, beads digging into his flesh with merciless pressure. He choked, his lungs spasming for air, his pulse pounding in his ears. The church blurred before him, candlelight warping into distorted halos.
“You know,” it murmured, laced with something dark, something almost amused.
Edgar clawed at the hands constricting him, his nails scraping against skin, but the grip only tightened, unrelenting. The rosary bit deeper, each bead pressing into his windpipe, cold and cruel.
He could feel its breath against his temple, a presence pressing closer, suffocating in its intimacy.
“I wish I could believe in something,” the voice whispered, almost wistful, almost bitter.
He tried to twist, to wrench himself free, but the grip was ironclad. His vision blurred, his body trembled.
Edgar’s vision swam, his body weakening, the edges of the world darkening.
His fingers slipped.
Then—darkness.
•
•
•
And now here he was.
The sound of the basement door opening snapped him back to the present. Its creak was loud and slow, like a deliberate warning. Edgar’s head lifted, and he squinted into the dimness as a figure stepped into view.
A door creaked open.
The pain flared in Edgar’s limbs. His breath came ragged.
A tall figure stepped inside, the light barely illuminating his angular features. He carried himself with eerie ease, his walk slow and deliberate.
His dark eyes gleamed with curiosity as he approached, yet instead of a smirk or a mischievous grin, his expression was unexpectedly meek—almost timid.
“Ah, you’re awake,” The man murmured, the way his long fingers twitched, looked uncanny and uncomfortable. He kicked a crate across the floor and sat on top of it. “Good. I was afraid you’d miss our little talk.”
Edgar swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “Who… are you?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Just someone who likes to have conversations in places where people can’t run away.”
Edgar’s muscles tensed. “Why did you bring me here?”
The dark haired man fiddled with his own hands, looking away. “You were praying,” he said simply. “It was fascinating. Watching you spill your guts to an invisible man in the sky. It made me wonder—what does it take to believe in something that never answers?”
Despite the clear insult, he remained calm. As calm as possible. “God answers. You just don’t listen.”
He lets out a loud cackle, it sounded like nail grating against a blackboard. “Oh! The classic response!” His laugh only grew louder “You're not listening hard enough? I should probably try to grow a third ear then!”
His voice lowered, teasing. “Tell me, do you think your God listened when I tightened that rosary around your neck?”
Edgar winced at the memory, his own rosary, the thing that once brought him solace, turned against him. To have the very symbol of his faith become an instrument of pain. A cruel irony. A test. And yet, he would not break. He was still here.
"I'm still here, aren't I?"
For a moment, his kidnapper’s grin twitched, faltered—then, with a sharp inhale, he rocked back and forth on his heels, laughter bubbling in his throat.
“Gee! And they say I’m the crazy one,” he snickered. “That’s what I don’t get about you believers.”
His voice pitched higher, mocking. "No matter how much you suffer, you twist it into proof of your faith. God’s testing me. God has a plan.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “Did it ever cross your mind that maybe, just maybe, there’s nothing up there? No grand design. No divine hand guiding you. Just emptiness.”
Edgar only stared at him with a straight expression. "Then why does it bother you so much?"
His pale fingers tapped against his knee—tap, tap, tap—his mouth curling into a smile, a smile that looked like an open wound.
"It doesn’t," he added flatly. Then, with a tilt of his head, a glint in his eye—
"I just think it’s pathetic.”
He stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a frustrated chuckle, he happily hopped off the crate as his feet landed on the floor
His eyes twitched as his fingers hovered on Edgar’s chest, but not fully touching him, it was clear that touching another human being made his skin crawl.
“I don’t want to believe in something that let me rot,” His kidnapper whispered, his voice almost tender. “Tell me, Edgar. Where was your God when I needed Him?”
Edgar didn’t flinch. “He was there. You just weren’t looking.”
The stranger lets out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “You sound just like the others. Desperate. Trying to convince yourself that the silence isn’t real.” He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Edgar’s cheek. “Tell me, when you prayed tonight, did you feel him?”
“Yes.”
His kidnapper’s fingers curled around the edge of the crucifix structure, his grip tightening. “Then why didn’t he stop me?”
Edgar exhaled slowly. “God gave man free will.”
His eyes darkened. “Ohhh, I hate that excuse.” He stalked to the side, wrapping his thin cold fingers around the lever. It was a simple rusty lever, one simple flick could operate the machine that the religious man was strapped onto.
His fingers trailed up to the lever as if teasing Edgar about his demise.
“Free will? That’s what you tell yourself? That's when some poor bastard gets his skull caved in with a hammer, God just watches because, oh, it’s free will?”
A sharp, mechanical creak groaned through the room as he pulled the lever down just slightly—just enough for Edgar to hear something shift behind him. A deep, metallic click echoed through the walls, followed by a slow, grinding noise.
He held his gaze “It’s not for us to understand his plan.” Edgar’s muscles stiffened, muscles instinctively pulling against his restraints.
The kidnapper’s fingers peeled away from the lever, the rust scraping under his nails. The hum of machinery stirred to life, vibrating faintly through the air. The damp, iron-tinged scent thickened.
“I wonder…” His voice dipped to a murmur, like he was musing to himself. “What do you think this does?”
He tilted his head, watching Edgar with an easy, almost amused curiosity. His grip on the handle was light, yet his knuckles whitened as he held it just on the edge—halfway pulled.
Edgar didn’t answer. His breath was steady, yet his heart hammered against his ribs.
The deranged man tapped his chin with his free hand, mock-thoughtful. “Do you think it’ll drop the ceiling? Maybe tighten your restraints?” His voice dipped lower, conspiratorial. “Or maybe it’s something worse.”
The lever creaked again, dipping lower.
Something heavy groaned behind Edgar. A deep, grinding noise, as if stone were being pushed against metal.
“Ah,” the kidnapper murmured, his voice light, almost delighted. “There it is.”
A pause. A beat of silence stretching between them.
Then—he let go.
The lever snapped back into place with a violent clang, echoing through the small room.
The unseen mechanism behind Edgar shuddered to a stop. It still felt tense, but no longer pressing in.
The madman stepped back, letting out a quiet laugh. “Would you look at that? I changed my mind.”
“I think you know there’s no one up there listening to you." His voice lowered, almost intimate. "That when you pray, you’re just whispering into the void.”
“I’ve seen it,” His kidnapper continued. His voice was softer now, a ghost of something almost tender. “That moment in their eyes, right before I kill them. That flicker of realization.”
He turned, looking up toward the ceiling, his grin widening. “Oh, God’s not coming to save me, moment. That’s my favorite part, honestly. The surrender.”
The brunette raised a brow, trying to get a decent look at his expression, as a way to understand or even address the expression but with his crooked glasses. It was difficult to do so.
He opened his mouth. “You think you’re God, then?”
The crazed man snorted. “God? No, no, no. I’m just a man with a knife and an abundance of free time.” Staring up at Edgar with something like sick fascination. “But maybe I am more real than the thing you’ve been worshipping your whole life. After all, I’m here.”
“I could take everything from you right now,” Edgar grimaced even deeper, as his kidnapper only smiled, stepping back again, circling him like a vulture.
“Your life. Your faith. I could carve into you, reshape you, make you see what I see.” He grinned even wider, the tip of his lips only curled tighter to the point where it looked painful.
“And you know what?”
Edgar’s breath was slow. The ropes bit into his flesh, death inches away—but he didn’t look away.
“You’d still believe,” his kidnapper whispered. There was something strange in his voice—something not quite mockery, something almost like wonder.
“I’ve seen his work in the world, in the people around me.” He swallowed, his throat dry, but he didn’t stop. His shoulders squared, his posture firm despite the dull ache running through his body. “And deep down, I think you’ve felt it too.”
His kidnapper stared at him, eyes dark and hollow. Edgar could see the way his fingers twitched, the subtle shift in his stance, like a puppet whose strings had been pulled too tight.
For a second, just a second, he thought he saw hesitation flicker across the man’s face. Then, with a sharp breath, he stepped back, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair, his movements jittery and agitated.
“I need blood for the walls.” His voice was light, almost casual, like he was discussing the weather.
“I was gonna use you. Not in the mood to go hunting, dragging another body in here just to keep the walls wet but—” He let out a short, breathy laugh. “Ehe. I really like our talks.”
As if on cue, his once cocky, erratic energy dulled into something more subdued, almost… sheepish. His gaze flickered to the walls, from behind the door.
“How could I forget?”
His fingers twitched, nails scratching absentmindedly at his arm.
“Stay there. Don’t move,” he muttered, already turning toward the door.
Edgar swallowed hard, fingers curling into his palms. “You don’t have to do this,” he called after him. “There’s still time to change.”
The kidnapper paused, his hand resting on the doorknob.
“Maybe.”
He didn’t turn around. The door creaked shut, leaving Edgar alone in the rotting room.
“But not today.”