Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the name of love, we have sinned.

* * *

And it came to pass in the days before the world knew death,

in the Garden not yet withered, beneath the Tree that bore no name,

that two angels met in silence.

One was called Uriel, whose blade guarded the gates of Heaven, whose hands were fire and whose eyes held no mercy.

And the other was Azazel, watcher of God's creation, who walked among the first beasts before Adam and Eve with bare feet and a heart unarmored.

And the Lord set them apart, one to judge, one to observe,

and between them, no command was given to touch, nor was blessing offered for what bloomed between them in the quiet hours.

But love,

Love, unbidden, unfurled its wings.

And Uriel, who knew the voice of God as breath, forgot it in the space between Azazel’s lips.

And Azazel, who had walked the earth for eternity, fell to his knees at the altar of Uriel’s voice saying his name.

They lay together in the grove, clothed in light and shadow, their hands entwined, their bodies joined,

and the garden, which had only known order, shivered with holy tremor.

For the first time since stars were spoken into being, an angel begged not for forgiveness,

but for more.

And the Lord beheld it, and was silent. 

But the silence did not last.

Then came the voices of the Thrones and the Seraphim, crying judgment, crying sin.

And Uriel stood naked, not in shame, but in sorrow, as Azazel knelt and took the blame.

“I seduced the sword of Heaven,” he said. “I whispered want into his heart. I led him astray.”

And so, Azazel was cast out, his wings turning black, his name struck from the book.

And Uriel, the obedient, was cleansed. Fire licked his soul. Memory was scorched from his mind like chaff.

He became hollow.

Heaven wept.

But not all.

For one watched from the shadows.

One called Abriel, who had once sung praises of Uriel, and burned with jealousy not for what Azazel had done,

but for what Uriel had given.

And Abriel went unto the depths, where no light was allowed, and he let his celestial soul get tainted.

Then, after millennia, a mortal voice reached his ears, 

“Make me eternal, and I will give you myself.” 

Abriel nodded.

And it was done.

—Source unknown 

* * *

St. Vincent’s Abbey looms in the distance like a scar against the sky. 

Black stone, weather-beaten spires, and old stone monsters guard the gates so the real monsters can't enter the house of God.

Mist lurks on the mountain road, trying to grasp the tires of the priest’s rented car like sharp claws, ready to lead him astray.

But he won't falter, because Kim Taehyung is here on a mission.

He doesn’t remember when he stopped needing directions, only that some places call to him like old dreams.

He parks at the edge of a crooked path.

The abbey lies just beyond the fog, tall and faceless, half-swallowed by trees that shouldn’t grow so high.

There’s no one waiting to greet him. Not even a bell at the gate. Just a dead crow, crushed beneath the rusted sign.

Its eye is missing. The other stares up like it died mid-scream.

Welcome to St. Vincent's.

Taehyung steps out of the car, boots crunching damp gravel. The air is cold and humid. His breath fogs, but he barely feels it.

He pulls his coat tighter, hand brushing the chain beneath his collar. His fingers linger there without thinking.

He doesn't remember where the cross came from. Probably a nun. He never takes it off. It's the only thing he has.

Taehyung doesn’t remember much about his early life. Only fragments, blurry images, and flashes. Falling snow on unfamiliar rooftops. A hand in his hair and a language he’s never read but still understands.

They told him he was found outside a church as a child, fevered and silent, without a note.

But Taehyung has always known things he shouldn’t. He recites rites no one taught him. He wakes with prayers that don’t exist in any liturgy. He dreams of fire and flowers. And sometimes, when he looks in the mirror after those dreams, his back aches. The doctors say it’s old nerve damage. He stopped asking after the third clinic gave him the same answer.

He finally sighs. His eyes have seen worse than death. It's part of God's plan after all. 

All things grow, all things die.

The gates creak open when he pushes. Iron against stone. No one soul is out there until the huge doors part and a tall man in brown robes steps out, face weary under St. Vincent's shadows.

“Father Taehyung,” the man says. “Welcome. I’m Father Namjoon.”

His hand feels rough when they shake, and his fingers are cold like a touch of death.

“They said you’d arrive before the snow.”

“They were right,” Taehyung replies, already scanning the bare courtyard. “Have the bodies been taken care of?”

“Cremated,” Namjoon says. “Like the others as you suggested.”

“How many now?”

Namjoon takes a moment to answer.

“Three. The last one was kept for examination as you requested.”

Taehyung doesn’t react or ask for details. He’s not here for grief. He’s here for answers.

“You must be tired, Father. Shall I show you to your room?”

“Not quite. Evil doesn't rest, Father Namjoon. Tell me about the place.”

The courtyard stones echo under their steps as Namjoon walks forth. The sky above is the color of ash, and the wind bites like it knows who he is.

“Well, then, St. Vincent’s has stood here since the 14th century,” Namjoon says as they pass the central fountain, dry now, its angel statue missing its wings, face held between its hands. “It was built by war survivors who believed silence could preserve sanity. The mountain kept them hidden. Safe.”

Taehyung listens, eyes roaming over ivy-choked stone and arched windows stained with decades of mildew.

“St. Vincent himself was a war medic,” Namjoon continues. “He believed the mind was the battlefield God cared for most. He documented what we now call ‘soul fracture.’”

“Demonic influence,” Taehyung mutters.

Namjoon hums. “Or something older. The texts are difficult to interpret. But many of the practices he began were adopted by the early exorcists. Some still use his sigils.”

They pass through a cloister where shadows slither around old pillars like snakes. A bell then tolls once, distant. Taehyung feels that same headache spread on his forehead. He gets migraines sometimes.

“After the second death,” Namjoon says, lowering his voice, “we began to worry. The suicides all followed a pattern. Always the same symbol carved into the skin. Always the same vacant look before they jumped.”

“Why wasn’t I called sooner?”

“Because…” Namjoon exhales. “Because the Abbot believed it could be grief. Or madness. And because it is not easy to accept that something unholy might have taken root here. Especially when…” He hesitates.

Taehyung stops walking. “When what?”

Namjoon meets his eyes. “When the Abbot is a good and pious man.”

Taehyung’s jaw tenses. “Good men can be vessels of evil too if tempted, Father.”

Namjoon nods, but there's something in his eyes, faith, or doubt, it’s hard to say. 

“He requested you by name, Father. Said if anyone could tell the difference between madness and possession, it would be you.”

They stop before the chapel doors. They are towering, wooden, carved with the image of a bleeding heart and surrounded by angels.

“The Abbot is praying inside,” Namjoon adds. “Would you like to meet him now?”

“No,” Taehyung says. “I want to see the body first.”

Namjoon’s gaze lowers, but he doesn’t argue. He gestures toward the eastern wing. “The infirmary is this way then. Brother Jeongguk will meet you there.”

Taehyung blinks. “The boy who found the last victim?”

“Yes. He’s quiet, but reliable,” Namjoon says. “Joined us a month ago. Came from one of the southern parishes. Hasn’t spoken much of his past. But he’s been… very helpful.”

Taehyung nods, though something unsettles him. There's a scent in the air and a sort of weight in his chest. He brushes his fingers against the chain beneath his collar without thinking.

Brother Jeongguk.

The name sounds like smoke in his mouth. Like a match just struck. He thinks it must be the eeriness of this place. As far as he knows, he has never met Brother Jeongguk before.

But he's eager to find out what he has to say now.

The eastern wing is colder. Narrower. As if the stone itself is retreating from something it remembers.

Taehyung pushes open the infirmary door and steps into silence.

The faint reek of formaldehyde and something spoiled, coppery, and thick hits him at once.

The corpse lies beneath a white sheet. It's too still. The kind that Taehyung has learned to mistrust. 

Across the room, a young man stands with his hands folded behind his back. His black robe is pristine, his collar crisp and his posture unnervingly straight, like he was carved instead of born.

He neither moves nor speaks when Taehyung enters. He only watches in a way that makes Taehyung’s skin prickle.

He takes him in unwillingly. The boy’s face is round and youthful. Beautiful, Taehyung dares to think. His features are too symmetrical, lips too red, and doe eyes too dark, like water before the drop.

There’s something ancient in there. Something not exactly wrong. But also… familiar?

Taehyung shakes it off. He must be tired from driving seven hours to get here. But he has no time to rest. So, he steps closer and clears his throat. 

“Brother Jeongguk?”

The boy nods once. “You must be Father Kim Taehyung.” His voice is as smooth as his face but carefully modulated.

Taehyung offers a nod in return but doesn’t relax. His eyes drift again over the boy’s hands, folded too precisely. There are drops of sweat at his temple, like he’d just finished something physical and hadn’t had time to cool.

The room feels colder now or maybe it’s just the body between them.

“I’m told you found the third body.”

“I did,” Jeongguk says. “Yesterday morning. I was scheduled to bring dried lavender to the chapel.”

Taehyung steps closer, ignoring the chill crawling up his spine.

“What did you see?”

“Compared to Father Gregory and Father Lee, who perished by jumping from the main building to the courtyard, Father Matthias was lying near the altar. No signs of a struggle. But he wasn’t at peace.”

Jeongguk’s gaze turns to the sheet. “You’ll understand.”

Taehyung pulls on the gloves from the tray and then peels back the linen.

Father Matthias’ face is collapsed inward, bruised and drained, eyes sewn shut with black thread. His chest is carved open, skin flayed back like parchment to reveal a sigil burned directly into the sternum.

It’s old and somewhat familiar. 

A cold breath rasps through Taehyung’s throat.

“Who touched the body?”

“Only me,” Jeongguk replies. “I recorded the symbols. Didn’t clean him. Thought you might want the truth undisturbed.”

Taehyung glances up and studies the boy for a moment longer. He looks too young, early twenties, maybe. But his gaze feels older, wiser.

“You’ve been here how long?”

“A month,” Jeongguk answers. “Transferred from the south. Saint Eligius Parish.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “That parish burned down.”

Jeongguk nods. “Three years ago, yes. We rebuilt.” He says it without emotion or grief.

Taehyung turns back to the corpse, scanning the jagged wounds. There are marks under the ribs and something crammed into the mouth. He gently parts the lips.

A coin? Charred black and… Roman, by the look of it.

“Charon’s obol,” Taehyung murmurs.

The coin rests on the corpse’s tongue, small and blackened with age. 

Behind him, Jeongguk steps closer. And for a moment, Taehyung feels it again. That strange weight on his chest. It's like air itself is folding inward, threatening to choke him.

Jeongguk’s voice is low. “He wasn’t the first to carry one.”

Taehyung glances over his shoulder. “You’ve seen this before?”

Jeongguk nods. “It’s… local. A holdover from old rites. The story goes that when a man of God dies with sin still on his breath, he’s given a coin. To pay the boatman. So he won’t wander.”

“Christianized folklore.”

“Mostly.” Jeongguk’s voice softens. “They say the early monks here blended Roman rites with early monastic burial customs. The coin isn’t meant for Charon, not really. It’s for whoever answers instead.”

Taehyung looks back to the corpse. The coin gleams dully in the low light.

“Superstition.”

“Men cling to superstition when reason doesn’t soothe them,” Jeongguk murmurs.

Taehyung frowns. Steps closer.

“Who else has had one?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer right away. And when he does, his voice is almost too quiet to hear.

“Everyone who died here.”

Taehyung frowns, pulse tightening. “You’re sure?”

“They were found during preparation,” Jeongguk replies. “Tucked under the tongue. Every single one. And every one of them… had already confessed.”

Taehyung looks up, sharply.

“All three had their pasts aired. Their penance given. Their sins named.”

“And?”

“And none of them were clean,” Jeongguk says.

Taehyung exhales, eyes narrowing. “So whoever—or whatever—is doing this…”

He looks down at the corpse again. “Targets the tainted.”

Jeongguk says nothing. But in the silence, the weight of it lingers. This isn’t judgment, but selection.

The metal cross under Taehyung's shirt suddenly feels hot against his skin. His fingers curl reflexively over the chain.

“You seem… weirdly composed, Brother,” he says carefully.

“I try to be,” Jeongguk says. “The dead deserve that much.”

There’s something unnatural in the calmness. Something that makes him… interesting.

Taehyung exhales. “Keep your hands away from the bodies unless instructed, Brother. We don't know what this is or how it spreads. Madness sometimes is nothing more than an infectious disease.”

Jeongguk bows his head slightly. “Of course, Father. Forgive me for being too eager.”

But he’s still watching. His eyes seem too old for his young face. Like he’s seen this all before and is waiting for Taehyung to catch up.

Taehyung’s eyes go back to examine the twisting mark on Father Matthias’ cheat. It appears to be older than Latin, older than any script found in sanctioned texts. It spirals inward, toward the sternum like a vortex. 

Taehyung leans in, tracing the air above the sigil.

“This was done postmortem,” he mutters. “But not much later. The blood clotted shallow.”

He glances at the throat. “And this wound...”

He pauses as he examines his throat.

“The external skin is unbroken. But inside, the esophagus has been torn open. Slit from within,” Taehyung says under his breath.

Jeongguk remains silent, almost unaffected by the information.

“You’re not surprised,” Taehyung says, without turning.

“I’ve had time to study it,” Jeongguk replies.

Taehyung frowns. “You said you’ve only been here a month.”

“I meant the pattern,” Jeongguk says simply. “Each death has left something behind. A mark. A message. Or... a warning.”

Taehyung glances back at the body. “You seem familiar with death.”

Jeongguk’s voice is almost gentle. “I’ve seen worse.”

Taehyung straightens. “Seen or done?”

“Done. Before I joined the church,” Jeongguk says. 

Taehyung’s hand drops from the chain around his neck. He watches Jeongguk more closely now, but the younger man’s expression gives nothing away. Stillness perfected. Eyes lowered in humility or... calculation.

“You believe in demonic possession, Brother Jeongguk?” Taehyung asks, stepping around the table to face him directly.

Jeongguk looks up. His cherry-colored lips part, slowly.

“I believe some things were never human to begin with.”

The wind outside rattles the stained glass and Taehyung feels a chill run down his spine.

For a moment, it feels like someone else is in the room, watching them closely. It's the kind of presence you don’t see but feel. Between your ribs. At the back of your throat. Breathing silently. Lurking. Waiting.

He turns sharply. Nothing. When he turns back, Jeongguk hasn’t moved. But he’s watching him now, the way a predator watches something it’s unsure it wants to kill or understand.

“Who trained you?”

Jeongguk’s head tilts slightly. “Father Theodore. From Saint Eligius.”

Taehyung frowns. “Theodore? He’s been retired for over a decade. He was already nearly blind when I was a student.”

Jeongguk nods. “He was old. I only met him once.”

“Then how—”

“He had books.” Jeongguk’s voice is calm. “A lot of them. He gave me access before he left.”

Taehyung narrows his eyes. “They don’t share those kinds of texts with brothers.”

“I liked to read,” Jeongguk admits. “Anatomy. Mythology. Obscure rites. Lost traditions.” He pauses. “Sadly, they were all burnt, anyway. Fire in the archives.”

Taehyung doesn't speak. He observes him instead. Jeongguk’s clean collar, composed expression, the way he never once looks at the corpse like it means anything at all.

“Do you have strange dreams, Father Taehyung?” Jeongguk asks suddenly.

Taehyung blinks. “Why?”

“No reason.”

Jeongguk takes a small step back. His voice softens, almost like a lullaby. “You should rest now. The dead won’t go anywhere. The Lord has taken them under His wings.”

Taehyung feels something crawl down the back of his neck. It's not a draft. This feels so wrong. He remains silent, nods and walks to the door. Then, he opens and closes it behind him without another word.

Jeongguk doesn’t follow. Namjoon waits for him in the corridor, arms crossed.

“You took your time,” he says. “How was Brother Jeongguk?” 

Taehyung doesn’t answer right away. He adjusts his sleeves. “Quiet.”

“That he is,” Namjoon replies, falling into step beside him. “Takes his vows seriously. He’s here to listen, mostly. The Abbot likes him.”

“Hmm.”

They walk in silence for a while, shoes scuffing on the old stone. The corridor narrows as they turn east, the archways lower, the plaster chipped and bruised by age.

Eventually, Namjoon pauses before a heavy oak door with a tarnished key already set in the lock.

“We don’t host visitors often,” he says. “But this was once the room of the founder’s physician. Should be adequate. The walls are thick.”

Taehyung’s eyes turn to him. “You think I’ll be screaming?”

Namjoon only smiles, tight-lipped. “Just a precaution.”

The room is bare, with a sparse cot, a wooden desk and chair, and a crucifix above the bed. There's a small mirror and a shuttered window, fogged at the corners.

A thin bar of sunlight rests across the pillow like a scar, escaping the clouds.

“I’ll have someone bring water for washing. And—” Namjoon hesitates, “the Abbot has asked you to dine with us tonight.”

Taehyung begins removing his coat. “I’d rather not.”

“I told him you’d say that,” Namjoon replies. “But he insists. He wants to speak with you."

"I see."

"Not as your superior," Namjoon adds. "But as a man of faith. He's… troubled.”

Taehyung hangs the coat on the lone hook. “He’s welcome to confession like anyone else.”

Namjoon watches him, tone quieting. “He believes he’s under attack.”

Taehyung stops, then turns to him.

“I thought he was a good man.”

“He is,” Namjoon replies. “Which is why he asked for you.”

The refectory is full but still feels empty. Half-melted candles flicker in sconces along the stone walls. The long table is set plainly with wooden bowls, rough-cut bread, and root stew. Silence is observed until the Abbot speaks.

Father Benedict sits at the head. He is older than his portrait, thinner, more weathered, but his eyes seem full of life. When he sees Taehyung, he rises.

“Father Taehyung,” he says, spreading his arms. “You honor us.”

Taehyung inclines his head. “You asked for me.”

“And heaven delivered,” the Abbot answers kindly.

The monks take their seats without a word. All except Jeongguk, who arrives late and takes the empty chair across from Taehyung without meeting his eyes.

Dinner is quiet after that. Yet somewhere outside the wind howls against the stone like something trying to claw its way in.

Taehyung barely touches his food. He watches for any clue. One of them is guilty. It has to be; otherwise, this is the work of something beyond Taehyung's jurisdiction.

“This place,” the Abbot interrupts his thoughts, hands folded, “was built to shelter the broken. To offer peace where the world has failed to give it. But lately…” He pauses. His eyes drift across the table. “I fear something else has found refuge here.”

He doesn’t elaborate and no one dares interrupt. They all know something's wrong. For a moment, the silence stretches, like the monastery itself is holding its breath. Then Jeongguk moves. He lowers his spoon into the bowl, stirs a couple of times before he speaks.

“There’s rot in the lower crypt.” His words they land like a stone dropped into still water.

Several heads turn and Namjoon straightens beside Taehyung, eyes narrowing. The Abbot’s spoon stops halfway to his mouth. He sets it down gently and clears his throat.

“We’ve… had it inspected,” he says. “A structural concern. Moisture. Mold, most likely.”

His voice is reassuring, but his gaze lingers on Jeongguk a moment too long. The young man doesn’t even blink.

“Why didn’t you mention it earlier?” Taehyung asks.

Jeongguk lifts his gaze. “Because I wasn’t sure it was real.”

Taehyung opens his mouth again, but something stops him. The candle nearest to them flickers violently and, for a second, the flame burns black. Then goes back to the usual red and yellow. Taehyung grips his spoon tighter. His hand trembles and his appetite disappears entirely.

Across from him, Jeongguk returns to his stew without another word.

As if the moment never happened.

As if it’s a simple dinner between brothers.

There's something strange about this boy, but more importantly, the Abbot seems to be hiding something.

Taehyung can feel it in his bones.

Taehyung wakes up or thinks he does.

The candle by his bedside has burned down to a stub. The air is wet like breath, and the window’s fogged with frost.

The monastery is silent now. It must be too early. Yet he rises, barefoot, the cold stone biting into his soles as he finds his way on the hallway. 

The walls seem older and darker than before. He moves slowly, drawn forward without will, like something wants him to see.

At the end of the corridor, a door is ajar. He doesn’t remember this wing but pushes the door open anyway.

Inside, there are half-rotted pews, candles burnt to stubs, icons peeled off the walls, and bodies. Three of them. Sitting stiffly in the front row, hands folded in prayer.

Their faces are twisted, eyes missing. One turns its head toward him. The movement is slow, jerky, and wrong, as if they are possessed.

Father Matthias’ mouth is sewn shut. The thread is twitching, like it’s trying to speak.

“W-what?” Taehyung staggers back, hand flying to the chain around his neck.

He turns around and there’s someone watching from the doorway behind him. It's not anyone he knows, but a shadow, tall, starved and veiled.

When he tries to look directly, it’s not there. But he still feels it, like claws tracing his spine.

He walks out at last but the corridor stretches the more he moves. Lamps hang from chains above him, swaying though there’s no wind.

The walls start to weep red. Blood drips from the cracks between the stones. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, splattering down the crucifix in the hallway.

He passes a mirror that shouldn't be there and sees his reflection on it.

It doesn’t move when he does. He looks like himself, until his eyes go black and a wicked smile spreads across his face unnaturally. Until something moves beneath his skin, rippling like worms.

“Get out of my head! I command you.” 

“You command nobody.”

Taehyung gasps as the reflection twists. Panicking, he shatters the glass with his bare hand. He doesn’t feel the pain, though or the sting of the shattered glass in his knuckles.

The hallway ends at a chapel he’s never entered. The prayer room is empty, save for one towering statue of St. Vincent himself, stone eyes cast down, one hand pressed to his heart.

The air feels stale and oppressive, like stepping underwater.

A creaking sound is then heard and Taehyung turns around to find Jeongguk standing there.

His robe is open at the throat, curls damp with sweat. His eyes, black and solid, burn straight through Taehyung.

“I knew you’d come here,” Jeongguk says.

Taehyung stiffens. “How did you—”

“I felt it.” He steps forward. “I always feel you.”

Taehyung stumbles back. His heart pounds like crazy in his chest.

“What are you talking about?”

Jeongguk’s hands curl at his sides. “Why don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“I know it’s you,” Jeongguk murmrus, moving closer. “You look different. You move different. But you feel the same.”

Taehyung’s lips part.

“I’ve seen you,” Jeongguk goes on. “In my dreams. Touching me. Holding me. Saying my name like it meant something.”

Taehyung’s breath hitches. “I'm not who you think I am. I don't know you, Brother—”

“There's one way to know for sure.” Jeongguk moves, faster this time, slithering his hand behind his nape and pulling him closer till their mouths crash together. 

Taehyung shoves him back, breathless. “Are you insane?”

“Yes,” Jeongguk whispers, eyes dark. “For you. I am.”

He licks his lips slowly. “You kissed me first. Back then… You pulled me down into the grass and said we’d be forgiven.”

Taehyung flinches as Jeongguk steps closer, murmuring, “And then I was falling...”

Taehyung’s breath catches and Jeongguk smiles, satisfied. It's crooked and completely unholy.

“But I’d do it again. For a taste of sin, I'd fall a thousand times.”

Taehyung doesn't know why but he grabs him by the robe, and slams him into the pew. He stares at him and something inside him breaks.

“You—”

“Kiss me. That's how you'll get your answer.”

And Taehyung does. He crashes their lips together in the most desperate way. Their teeth clack and their hands roam, frantic, over cloth and skin. Taehyung bites Jeongguk’s lower lip, drags his mouth down to his throat, sucking on the soft skin that tastes like heaven.

Jeongguk groans. “You always did this. Even then. You made me forget everything...”

Taehyung presses him harder into the wood, grinding against him. “Then forget them again.”

The kiss deepens, turning hungry and obscene. Jeongguk’s leg slides between his. Their hips grind together as Jeongguk's hand slots against his chest. But then something breaks and Taehyung jerks back with a gasp. Pain, hot and sudden, tears through his chest.

He looks down and his cassock darkens with blood.

Jeongguk stares, wide-eyed. “No—no, not yet—”

He stumbles back, gasping. The statue of St. Vincent in the middle of the room is now weeping.

Black tears trail down stone cheeks. Oil? Or rotten blood? The outstretched hand cracks, dark liquid oozing from the joints.

Jeongguk staggers forward. “I didn’t mean to—”

But he’s already vanishing, fading like smoke.

“Wait—” Taehyung reaches out but Jeongguk’s gone.

The statue looks down with hollow eyes and its mouth splits open.

“You were his favorite,” it says, voice full of rot, “and still you chose the other.”

Black oil pools around Taehyung’s knees as the sigil burns hotter. Taehyung drops to his knees, breathing fast as he murmurs prayers to fend off evil.

But then a sense of fear and agony grips him. It feels like he's being burnt alive. He screams, then claws at his cassock, tearing fabric as blood begins to spill down his torso. He rips it open and there’s something carved into his skin. Not with a blade, but burned, searing its way out from beneath the flesh.

It's the same sigil carved into Father Matthias. It bleeds and bleeds, too much, and splashes onto the floor beneath the statue.

St. Vincent is now weeping, tears running from his stone eyes. And then the statue leans, looks at him, and its mouth splits open.

“Now bleed for your sins.” The voice pierces his bones, blood mixing with oil at his feet.

And Taehyung screams again.

He jolts upright in bed, soaked in sweat.

The window is still fogged and the candle is still burning.

His hands tremble as they reach for his chest. Thankfully, the skin is intact.

A dream… or a nightmare. Taehyung passes a hand through his hair, heart still racing.

But when he pulls down the collar of his nightshirt, just over his sternum... One drop of blood, still wet, lies there.

A pounding knock then rips through the stillness. Taehyung jolts upright in bed, breath catching, his face and body still sweaty from the dream. The candle on his nightstand flares unnaturally as if reacting.

Another knock, more urgent now. He throws off the blanket, barefoot on cold stone, and removes the nightshirt to wipe his forehead. 

He pulls the door open half-naked, still disoriented.

Jeongguk stands there, hair messy, eyes wide, out of breath. His robes are askew like he dressed mid-run.

“There’s been—” he stops.

Taehyung’s chest is bare and Jeongguk’s words falter as his eyes trail down over the mess of old scars and fresh red lines across Taehyung’s ribs, the bruises blooming like shadows.

“Father Taehyung,” he starts and Taehyung turns around to reach for a shirt to cover himself.

The sight of Taehyung’s back makes Jeongguk inhale sharply.

Two long, vertical scars, slightly raised, run from his shoulder blades down to his lower back. They are too symmetrical. Surgical, perhaps. Too… clean. Like something once sprouted there, only to be torn free.

And over those, countless smaller scars. Thin and precise like lashes.

Taehyung notices his stare when he turns around.

“What?” His voice is hoarse.

“Who—” Jeongguk swallows. “Who did that?”

Taehyung looks at him, confused. “Did what?”

Jeongguk steps forward. Not too close, but close enough that he can smell Taehyung's scent and feel the warmth of his overheated body.

“You were screaming,” he says quietly. “Not out loud. Not really. But I heard it.”

Taehyung doesn’t move. For a moment, they just look at each other. Jeongguk’s chest rises and falls a little faster than it should and Taehyung’s hand tightens on the edge of the door. It can't be. That was just a nightmare. A very bad one. Ominous even.

Sinner… the voice in Taehyung's head whispers, but then Jeongguk’s expression changes.

“Come with me,” the young man says suddenly. “It happened again.”

Taehyung doesn’t ask wha, trying to push away what he recalls from the dream. He throws on his coat, still half-buttoned, and follows him barefoot through the hallway, the hem of his cassock trailing across stone that feels colder than before.

The doors are already open when they arrive. Namjoon stands near the altar, pale and trembling. He turns as they enter, face drawn.

“It’s Father Gideon,” he says. “They found him just before Lauds. Same marks. Same… everything.”

Taehyung moves forward, past the empty pews.

The body lies crumpled at the base of the statue of St. Vincent, exactly where Taehyung stood in what had felt more than a dream.

Blood pools beneath his robes. His chest has been carved open. The sigil is familiar. Too familiar. And above him, Saint Vincent weeps.

Black oil runs from the statue’s eyes, exactly like the dream.

Taehyung stumbles back, confused and terrified.

“No,” he breathes and Jeongguk catches his arm, steadying him.

“Father Taehyung,” he says. “Something is plaguing the Abbey.”

Taehyung can’t speak. He can barely breathe, because the sigil on Father Gideon’s chest is the same one still faintly burning into his own flesh.

And the statue’s mouth is open as if waiting to speak again and call him a sinner.

For what? Taehyung’s head hurts badly as he stares at the statue, the oil dripping in slow, thick tears onto Father Gideon’s robes. It smells faintly of iron and ash, like something bled from the bones of Heaven.

Namjoon is already murmuring a prayer under his breath, but the words barely register. The chapel is too still. The air too stuffy, crashing his lungs.

Jeongguk steps forward, kneeling beside the body.

“Don’t touch him,” Taehyung snaps, still trembling.

Jeongguk looks up at him, calm. “I know what I’m doing.”

Without waiting for approval, he lifts the edge of Gideon’s cassock.

The wound carved into the chest is deeper than the others. Cleaner. The sigil has been etched with something sharp and hot, cauterized on the flesh.

“This was done by someone who knew exactly where to cut,” Jeongguk murmurs.

He doesn’t flinch as he parts the folds of blood-wet fabric, revealing the eyes sewn shut, not with thread this time, but wire.

Taehyung draws closer despite himself.

“There,” Jeongguk points. “Same obol. Same placement.”

“And his throat?”

Jeongguk lifts the jaw carefully. Blood bubbles up from within, dark and thick. “Ripped from the inside again. It’s surgical.”

He pauses. Then glances up at him. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Taehyung doesn’t reply.

Jeongguk sits back on his heels, hands tainted with blood. He looks up at Taehyung, bit like a priest, but a man who’s steady in the face of death and gentle with the ruined.

“You’re not afraid?” Taehyung asks quietly.

Jeongguk tilts his head. “Should I be?”

Taehyung’s lips part, but no words come. There’s something about the way Jeongguk looks at him, like he’s already seen what’s hidden, what’s buried deep, and hasn’t turned away.

Jeongguk wipes his hands on a cloth from the altar. “This isn’t a demon’s work.”

Taehyung’s gaze sharpens. “What is it, then?”

Jeongguk folds the cloth carefully. “I'm not sure yet.”

Taehyung studies him. Something in his chest calms but not entirely. He crouches beside him, mirroring his posture. The scent of old blood and candle wax fills his nostrils.

“We’ll examine the body properly at dawn,” Taehyung says. “Together.”

Jeongguk nods. “Of course.”

Taehyung looks down at Father Gideon’s mutilated chest. The sigil seems to pulse faintly beneath the candlelight, like it's something alive.

But he doesn’t look away this time.

The Abbot’s study smells of old cedar and incense, as though time itself has seeped into the grain of the wood. 

Rays of light come through a narrow window, slicing the room into clean gold and shadow.

Father Benedict sits behind a heavy desk, hands folded neatly, with a steaming cup of tea untouched beside him. His expression, is gentle despite the events plaguing the monastery.

“You haven’t slept,” he says, not looking up.

“I didn’t come here to sleep,” Taehyung replies, stepping inside. 

Benedict gestures to the chair across from him. “Nevertheless. You look troubled.”

Taehyung sits stiffly. “Another priest is dead. That troubles me.”

“Yes.” The Abbot pauses. “Gideon was young. He had questions.”

“About what?”

“Everything,” Benedict says, smiling faintly. “God. Purpose. Ritual. The mold in the crypt, as some call it. He feared there was… something beneath our silence.”

Taehyung watches him carefully. “Is there?”

“Doubt?” Benedict shrugs. “There always is.”

He picks up the tea, sips once. “Do you believe in divine punishment, Father Taehyung?”

Taehyung doesn't hesitate. “Yes.” Somehow, he feels he has come across God's wrath before.

“Even now? With all you’ve seen?” The Abbot’s gaze sharpens slightly. “You still believe a righteous God might kill His own servants?”

Taehyung now doesn’t answer at once. Instead, he leans forward, taking his time. 

“There’s a pattern to the deaths. Same markings. Same obol. Same silence. These aren’t random. Someone is trying to be understood.”

“Or trying to frighten us.”

“Fear is a tool,” Taehyung replies.

“And so is guilt,” the Abbot says, too quickly.

Taehyung sighs as silence falls between them. He scans the study, books piled neatly, handwritten journals bound in leather. On the wall, there's an old framed letter. The seal has been broken and replaced. The Vatican’s crest remains faint behind it.

He gestures toward it. “You served in Rome.”

“A long time ago,” Benedict says.

“You left voluntarily?”

“Is anything ever truly voluntary?” Benedict replies with a small smile.

Taehyung’s fingers twitch in his lap. “And you believe this monastery is still holy ground?”

“I believe it remembers holiness,” the Abbot answers. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

“But something’s festering here.”

The Abbot nods slowly. “Yes. And maybe that’s why you were sent. Not to cleanse it… but to bear witness.”

Taehyung hold his breath for a second. “To what?”

“To what becomes of the faithful who forget they were once flesh,” he says gently, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth now. A different smile. One that doesn’t reach his eyes. A little… wicked even?

Taehyung thinks he must be tired. He wants to believe that’s all it is.

The Abbot continues as though slipping into memory. “That reminds me of a story.”

“A story?”

Benedict nods. “There was a priest once. A long time ago. Devout. Humble. Sent to a remote cloister on the edge of nowhere. The kind of place no one leaves unless they’re told to.”

He folds his hands.

“He discovered something there. A… bond between two brothers in cloth. Forbidden, of course. Intimate. One born of loneliness. The other… something older.”

Taehyung says nothing., trying to make the connection. The Abbot’s eyes remain on him.

“The priest reported it. Did what was righteous. He exposed them. One was punished. The other… pitied. And the one who told the truth? He was exalted.”

Taehyung blinks. A name flashes in his mind like smoke, unformed, hazy, sratching at something buried.

The Abbot’s voice dips. “Sometimes we are rewarded not for staying pure… but for refusing to look away.”

Taehyung remains silent. Outside, a crow lands on the windowsill and begins tearing at its own wing. Feather by feather. Blood patters against the stone but yhe Abbot doesn’t flinch.

An omen?

After a moment, the Abbot speaks again. “You’ve seen the boy. Brother Jeongguk.”

Taehyung nods slowly. “Yes.”

“He's a curious one. Quiet. But… not hesitant.”

Taehyung studies him. “He said he studied under Father Theodore from Saint Eligius. But the timeline doesn’t match. He would’ve been a child.”

“Some boys learn quickly,” the Abbot says. “Especially if they’re taught by something other than men.”

Taehyung’s fingers intertwined in his lap.

“I’ve seen him watching me. Listening. But always from the corner of the room.”

“He keeps to shadows,” the Abbot murmurs. “Not uncommon for those carrying shame.”

Taehyung tenses. “He knew about the coin. About the rot in the crypt. Things no novice should know.”

The Abbot meets his eyes, tone unchanging. “And what does that tell you, Father Kim?”

Taehyung doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away, either.

Is Brother Jeongguk behind the deaths? And if he is… what does he have to gain?

Then another thought, colder occurs to him.

They were all sinners here.

Quiet sins. Ugly ones.Some confessed, others buried. All forgiven by men. Not necessarily by God.

Taehyung shifts in his seat.

“I should retire,” he says finally, rising. “There’s still much to review.”

The Abbot nods, calm as ever. “Of course. May your rest be undisturbed.”

Taehyung dips his head politely. “Good night, Father.”

“Good night, child.”

The corridor beyond is colder now and the candles burn lower. His footsteps echo along the stone, steady but thoughtful.

Somewhere behind him, a door creaks, almost imperceptible.

He stops and looks back.

Nothing. Just shadows.

But as he turns the corner toward the stairwell, he feels it again.

A pair of eyes watching his every step. Taehyung braces himself and moves again as the memory of that peculiar  dream this him again. 

Jeongguk's lips… so soft and pure like an angel’s…

No. He’s here to find the one responsible for killing in the house of God, not succumbing to sin due to a pair of big eyes.

But why his heart is full of doubt is still a mystery.

It’s past midnight when Taehyung moves.

The halls are quiet, too quiet. Candles long burned down. Even the wind has stopped.

The key in his palm feels cold. He doesn't know how he got it but it's in his hand.

His feet lead him to the Abbot’s private corridor. It was supposed to be sealed behind a curtain of relics, but it’s unguarded tonight. He passes the threshold and feels the air dampen. It smells wrong. Mold and ash and something familiar. Like stone soaked in blood. Like rot beneath skin.

He looks around and then, behind a carved wooden panel, he locates a hidden door.

It groans when it opens. Beyond lies a narrow staircase descending into black.

He quickly reaches for one of the lanterns burning on a nearby table.

The walls sweat as he descends, fungal roots climb on the ceiling like veins. There’s writing here, old, half-erased. It's neither Latin nor Enochian. Definitely not holy. Just twisted sigils, burned inreverse.

When he reaches the base, he finally comes across the crypt. It smells of copper and sulfur and wet ash. Rows of crumbling coffins line the walls, some split open, empty. Something breaks underneath Taehyung's foot. He doesn't dare to look.

There's wet stone everywhere, something festering behind the walls. Taehyung barely notices the stench. The lantern swings wildly in his grip, its flame fluttering like it senses what's coming.

He hears footsteps and turns around to confront whoever or whatever it may be.

To his suprise, Jeongguk stands in the archway, robes loosened, damp with sweat, curls stuck to his brow, chest heaving like he ran here.

“Brother Jeongguk. You followed me,” Taehyung says, voice low.

“I didn’t mean to,” Jeongguk replies quickly. “I thought you were—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Why are you here?” Taehyung steps closer but Jeongguk doesn’t move or answer. He tries again. “You knew there was something beneath this place,” he murmurs, crowding into his space. “You led me here. What for?”

“I didn’t—” Jeongguk starts, but Taehyung shoves him back, hard, into the wall. The lantern swings between them, casting shadows across Jeongguk’s face.

Taehyung grips his collar. “Who are you really?”

Jeongguk gasps softly as the cold stone kisses his spine. “I’m… just a brother.”

Taehyung’s hand closes around his jaw, fingers warm, trembling.

“No,” he whispers. “Tell me the truth. Did you kill the Fathers?”

Jeongguk’s breath stutters. His lips part, whether to deny or confess, it doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t pull away. Taehyung’s thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, slowly. He has no idea why he's so worked up. 

“You’ve been in my dreams,” Taehyung then murmurs. “I’ve seen your hands on my body. Your mouth. You keep touching me like we belong.” He takes a deep breath. “Why?”

Jeongguk’s eyes flutter shut. “Because I do.”

Taehyung’s throat hurts when he swallows. Yet, he presses in tighter. “All my life, I’ve been waking up aching.”

Jeongguk leans into him, forehead to forehead. “So do I.”

Taehyung’s breath is ragged now. “What did you do to me?”

“I waited,” Jeongguk says, voice shaking. “For you.”

He reaches up and his hands slide beneath the back of Taehyung’s cassock, fingers brushing his skin.

Taehyung shudders at the contact. He should stop this. Should push him away. Last time he ended up branded like an animal.

But he doesn’t. Jeongguk exhales against his cheek. 

“Your soul remembers even if this body doesn’t.”

Taehyung’s hands fist in his robes, pulling him close. “Say it.”

Jeongguk smiles. “You used to praise me. Under the trees. You tasted like light.”

Taehyung surges forward, lips crashing into Jeongguk’s with a huge the can't explain.

It’s not gentle but pure sin. Longing turned feral. Their mouths mouths move frantically and Jeongguk moans against him, hips rolling forward, chasing friction. Taehyung presses his thigh between his legs and feels him.

He’s hard and desperate. Oh, how easy the flesh succumbs.

Jeongguk gasps then grabs Taehyung's wrists and pins them against the wall, teeth scraping down his throat, dragging his collar down to expose the hollow beneath his jaw.

“Still divine,” Jeongguk whispers, trembling.

“You’re sick,” Taehyung breathes.

“Only for you.”

Their bodies grind hard and Jeongguk presses his forehead against Taehyung’s, eyes blown wide.

“I would have died waiting,” he says. “But you found me.”

He slips one hand between them, grazing Taehyung’s chest but then stops.

His thumb brushes over the fabric. The skin burns underneath but it doesn't hurt.

Jeongguk’s voice drops to a whisper. 

“It’s breaking.”

Taehyung flinches and his knees buckle.

“What did you do to me?” he breathes.

“I did nothing. They did.” Jeongguk kisses the spot, lips gentle. “I can't lose you again.”

The lantern bursts then and darkness swallows them whole. But even in the dark, Taehyung feels wings unfurl.

Jeongguk’s voice is heard again, almost like a prayer.

“Do you remember how it felt to be loved by me?”

And then everything is swallowed by darkness.

Taehyung gasps awake.

His sheets are soaked and his thighs feel sticky with shame. His breath cuts sharp through the dark.

He’s alone now but when he pulls back his collar there's something there. It feels warm, even though the skin isn't marked.

The dream is hazy. But he can feel his lips tingling. On the floor, beside the bed there's something that looks like a crow's feather, curled at the edge.

“What is happening to me?” He wonders and the only logical explanation he has is that whatever’s haunting St. Vincent's Abbey is now coming for him.

The morning bell hasn’t rung.

The monastery is still locked in the breathless dark before dawn. Taehyung sits on the cold stone floor, barely dressed, the sheets tangled behind him like something discarded. His moves in shallow gasps. It’s been An hour since he woke up, shaken, sweaty and shameful.

The pain in his chest is still there, like a kiss burned into his skin. He traces it with trembling fingers. There'a something there that feels alive. Like it knows him. Like it’s always been there.

His head then falls a little and when he lifts it back up, his eyes look different. As if it's someone else guiding the body.

He stands and stumbles toward the corner where the prayer bench waits. He kneels hard, hands clasped tight and breath ragged.

“Deliver me, O God,” he whispers. The words tremble. His voice breaks. “Deliver me from evil... from temptation... from myself.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like God is listening. Somehow, it feels like God hasn't been here in a long, long time.

Instead of finding peace, his last two dreams come back to him in flashes.

A hot mouth against his throat. Whispers of wings. The statue speaking to him, weeping, oozing dark tears.

He grips the sides of his head.

“No…” He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t—

But his body does. His back aches. The same pain hits him again and the scars twitch beneath his skin, as if waiting.

He stands, shaking, and walks barefoot to the armoire.

Behind the priestly garments, hidden, carefully wrapped in cloth, lies the whip.

Seven tails. Barbed ends. He doesn’t remember packing it. But it’s his. He stares at it for a moment. 

Sinner.

Then strips slowly, breath catching as cold air touches his skin. He kneels before the cross on the wall, pressing his forehead to the stone beneath it.

Forgive me.

The first lash lands with a crack and he gasps.

The second tears skin and his toes curl.

By the third, he doesn’t feel the pain anymore. As if this is what his body was made for. As if something is watching him, and it's finally satisfied.

Tears stream down his face as blood runs down his back in crimson rivers. His knees are red and the floor is slick. He doesn’t know how long it lasts. But he carries on and on and on till he collapses forward, fingers curled around the whip’s handle, the cross looming above him like judgment itself.

“Please,” he chokes. “Deliver me from evil….”

His vision blurs and his breath slows. The last thing he sees is the flickering candle by the bed.

Its flame turns black and then...

...nothing.

Taehyung stirs.

Pain is the first thing he registers. It’s sharp and raw from the lines his own hand seared across his back. 

But there's also warmth. He feels heavy blankets on his body, cotton against his skin, and a damp cloth across his forehead.

A voice then comes. Is this another dream?

“You’re burning again.”

His vision is still burry but he knows the voice.

“B-brother Jeongguk?”

Sitting at the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled to the elbow, Jeongguk gently dabs sweat from his face. A bowl of water rests beside him. 

Taehyung flinches and Jeongguk withdraws the cloth instantly. “Sorry.”

“How did you—” His voice cracks and he tries to clear his throat. “How did I get here?”

“I came to check on you. You didn’t come for Lauds,” Jeongguk explains. “Your door was open.”

Taehyung is sure he locked it form inside… 

“I-I—” he tries back the pain makes him wince.

“Don’t move. You were on the floor. Bleeding.”

Taehyung says nothing. His fingers twitch beneath the blanket. The bandages across his back pull tight as he shifts. His body remembers more than he does.

Jeongguk looks down. “I tried to be careful. The wounds were… deep.”

Taehyung watches him. His voice is quiet, clipped. “The murders began a month ago.”

Jeongguk nods once.

“You also arrived a month ago.”

Jeongguk’s shifts slightly as Taehyung tries to sit up. 

“Coincidence?”

“I didn’t kill them if that's what you're implying,” Jeongguk says.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Taehyung finally finds the strength to swing his legs over the side of the bed. 

“You knew something was wrong before I did. You’ve been in the crypt, haven't you? And… you're somehow haunting my dreams. What are you?”

“That’s not possible.”

Taehyung stares at him. “Isn’t it?”

He rises too fast, but he still feels dizzy and off balance. Jeongguk moves to steady him, but Taehyung shoves him back, eyes sharp.

“There are lives at stake. I don’t care what vow you took, or what you’re afraid of. If you’re hiding something—you tell me right now.”

Jeongguk swallows but he doesn’t step back.

Instead, he says, “Do you remember the first sin, Father Taehyung?”

Taehyung narrows his eyes. “What?”

“The first sin,” Jeongguk repeats, voice softer now. “Not the fruit. Before that.”

Taehyung says nothing. He has no idea what he's talking about.

Jeongguk’s eyes lift. “It wasn’t disobedience,” he says. “It was love.”

Taehyung’s throat goes dry as Jeongguk stands, picks up the cloth and puts it aside.

“Come to the old chapel. Tonight. After vespers.”

Taehyung’s voice is hoarse. “Why?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer at first. Then he turns, eyes darker than before.

“Because you won't be able to see it in daylight.”

Taehyung tries to eat. The refectory is silent again, his stew untouched. He watches Jeongguk across the room. He's quiet, head bowed in prayer.

He's a model brother, but Taehyung sees it now. The way the shadows never quite cling to him, how he never flinches at death, how he speaks like he’s quoting something older than scripture.

Jeongguk’s eyes flick up once and catch Taehyung’s. He smiles faintly and he looks away. He needs to make some preparations because he's sure, tonight will end with one of them in a casket.

So, he stands, and exits the refectory without a word. The Abbot's eyes follow him till he closes the door, curious. He looks different today. More sinister? Or maybe troubled...

He finds Namjoon moments later near the storage cell, checking records.

“Father Namjoon, I need a favor,” Taehyung says.

Namjoon turns. “Of course.”

“There’s a supplier in town. Oil for the sanctuary lamps. Herbs for the infirmary.” His voice is calm. “The stores here are running low. If we’re snowed in, it could become dangerous.”

Namjoon nods. “I can ride down this evening.”

“Good,” Taehyung adds. “Stay overnight if you have to. Leave early.”

Namjoon tilts his head, brow creasing. “Do you think something is going to happen tonight?”

“I think something already has.” Taehyung’s eyes don’t waver. “And I want you out of here when it gets worse.”

Namjoon is silent for a moment. “You think it’s one of us? Brother… Jeongguk?”

“I think the timeline’s convenient,” Taehyung replies. “I think he’s seen more than he admits. And I think he’s hiding something.”

“I see. Do you think someone is gonna die tonight?”

Taehyung doesn’t answer. His silence says everything he can't sya out loud.

Namjoon sighs. “Alright. I’ll go.”

The day bleeds into dusk, and the monastery begins to stretch its bones, walls creaking, whispers slithering through stone like snakes.

Taehyung kneels in the sanctuary, alone, gripping his rosary so tightly his knuckles whiten.

He’s already retrieved the host, Holy water, salt and the old rites, just in case Jeongguk ends up being a child of Lilith after all.

His body aches and his back burns.

He can feel the air suffocating him, the dream torturing him, its rot creeping beneath the stone.

Tonight, something will end. Whether it’s a deception, a demon, or a man.

He looks up at the crucifix.

“Forgive me Lord,” he whispers. “For I have sinned.”

Then he stands up and heads out 

The area surrounding the chapel feels ominous. Taehyung knows something is wrong the moment he pushes the door open and the air hits him, stale and metallic, like dust layered over blood.

The candlelight flickers strangely, reacting to his presence. He steps inside, each footfall muffled by the damp stone. The altar ahead is cracked and the stained glass fractured. Every holy figure has had its face worn smooth by time, or something far less patient.

And then a sound reaches his ears.

Another’s breath, hallow and rattling. It makes his soul tremble at once.

He turns toward the front pews and finds a man sitting there, body slumped forward, hands limp in his lap.

A priest? 

“Father,” Taehyung calls cautiously, stepping closer. “Are you—”

The man jerks upright.

His eyes are open but wrong, clouded, almost silver. His mouth moves, but no sound comes immediately. 

“W-hy— here?” he rasps. “I was just… I was just praying.”

He looks around the chapel like a stranger in his own skin.

“I don’t remember coming in. I—I don’t even remember waking up.”

Taehyung freezes. “Who brought you here?”

But the priest just shivers, repeating under his breath. “I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t— He said he was an angel of the Lord. In my dream. He said I needed to let him in. Welcome salvation, give in…”

“He's already dead,” anither voice pierces the air and from the side aisle, Taehyung sees Jeongguk stepping out of the shadows.

He looks as he always does, with robes straight, and face serene. But there’s something off now. Something fractured in his calm.

Taehyung’s eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“You brought him.”

Jeongguk nods.

“I did him a favor. He’s an empty vessel now,” he says softly. “Whatever he was… it’s almost gone now.”

“You mean possessed.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “I mean emptied.” He looks up. “Like something chewed through his soul and left a shell behind. There was nothing left to save. He's a dead man.”

Taehyung’s hand moves to the chain beneath his shirt, fingers clenching his cross.

“You expect me to believe that?”

Jeongguk stands slowly. “Do you know how the fire started in the archive at Saint Eligius?”

Taehyung narrows his eyes. “That was ruled accidental. Old wiring.”

Jeongguk lets out a dry laugh. “No. I lit the match.”

Taehyung goes still.

Jeongguk’s voice drops, deadly serious now. “The same thing that’s happening here? It was happening there. Whispers. Disappearances. Rot beneath the altar. Confessions that never made it to absolution.”

Taehyung’s stomach turns.

“I burnt everything,” Jeongguk says. “The relics. The books. The journals. Because I knew who was behind it. And he’s here now sitting on that fancy chair, pretending to be good and pious.”

Taehyung stares at him. “You’re talking about the Abbot?”

“I’m saying he’s not what you think he is.”

Taehyung takes a step back. “You murdered people. You burned down a holy place. And now you expect me to believe you’re the one telling the truth? Who are you really? Tell me your real name.”

Jeongguk’s eyes darken. “People have been disappearing. Quietly. Names scratched off rosters. Buried without rites. The Abbot got careful this time. He only takes the weak now. The ones no one notices. But, I noticed. I found all of them. The real question is… why did he bring you here. And how did he found you before me.”

Taehyung’s mouth opens, but no words come. This doesn't make any sense.

“You think I’m the monster,” Jeongguk says, stepping forward and Taehyung remains still.

“You look at me,” Jeongguk whispers, “and you don’t see the boy. You see what’s wearing him.”

Taehyung’s voice is now trembling. “Aren’t I?”

Jeongguk chuckles. It sound so ordinary, so familiar… “If I was a demon, Father Taehyung… you’d be on your knees already.” He pauses. “Dead.”

The words hit him a little too hard. Taehyung’s grip tightens around the cross until it bites his palm.

His heart doesn’t slow.

Then, the priest on the pew begins to shake violently. Foam gathers at the edge of his mouth and his hands twitch like something is pulling strings from beneath the skin.

And then he screams. It’s high, gurgling, full of wrong. Then, his fingers tear the fabric and claw his skin.

Taehyung surges forward, but Jeongguk’s already moved. He touches the man’s head gently and whispers something too soft to hear.

And with a soft exhale, he breaks his neck in a single move.

The body slumps over and Taehyung staggers back, shocked.

“What did you do?”

Jeongguk looks at him, face pale.

“Mercy,” he whispers. “He wasn’t coming back.”

Taehyung stares at him like he’s never seen him before. “You said you weren’t the evil here.”

“I’m not,” Jeongguk says, stepping closer. “I’m what God made me. A watcher of creation.”

Taehyung recoils. “What does that mean—”

The chapel doors then creak open behind them and they both turn.

Clad in red velvet and back, the Abbot steps inside. He regards the corpse without blinking.

“Ah,” says the Abbot, unflinched. “We’re all gathered, then.”

Then, he walks down the center aisle like a man approaching the altar of his own kingdom. Jeongguk doesn’t move. His hands remain at his sides, waiting.

Taehyung watches them both. His fingers now reach for the holy water in his pocket. There's evil in the room. Taehyung knows it. How did he miss it?

The Abbot stops beside the corpse on the floor.

“Such a shame,” he murmurs. “Gideon was always delicate. And you,”his gaze lifts to Jeongguk, “you’ve always had a talent for interrupting, am I right, brother?”

Jeongguk’s smile is bitter. “At least I don’t drag out human souls. What would Father say, huh?”

The Abbot turns to Taehyung,who is clearly  confused. “You see now why I summoned you?”

Taehyung’s voice is careful. “Because you believe he’s responsible.”

“I don’t believe,” the Abbot replies smoothly. “I know. He is the source of the rot. The deaths. He whispers temptation. And when the weak fall, he calls it mercy. In truth, this young man is a delusional murderer, who as I hear burnt St. Eligius to the ground.”

Jeongguk laughs and it's almost terrifying. “You fed on them. Slow. Devout. Their suffering was your prayer. And everyone at St. Eligius was already dead before I burnt everything down.”

The Abbot continues, using a voice that doesn't match his gentle face. “I wish you were still sealed in that hole Father put you. Now you, Father Kim, need to be vigilant  and strike evil down.”

“I don't understand.” Taehyung’s throat dries. It's like they're having a conversation with two different people. “You want me to kill him?”

“I need you to,” the Abbot says. “Because only you can. He's a demon. A parasite.”

He takes a step forward, eyes kind. Too kind.

“You’re not like the others, Father Taehyung. You never were.”

The room tilts as the smell of sulfur floods Taehyung's nose. He feels a strange itch behind his shoulder blades, where skin meets old scars. The place where something once lived.

“What are you talking about?”

The Abbot’s smile widens. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? Your prayers burn instead of soothe. The host resists your tongue. No relic welcomes you. It took me a while to find you, Father Taehyung, but I'm sure it's you. It has to be.”

Taehyung staggers slightly. The memory of the brand on his chest throbs. Even if it was just a dream. It feels too real. Like there's something there, aching to break free.

“You came from fire,” the Abbot says softly. “You fell with a sword in your hand. You were born to cleanse the world. But instead,” his gaze darkens, “you chose to cut them off.”

Taehyung blinks, unable to understand. His hand sinks inside his pocket without thinking.

Jeongguk’s voice cuts through the rising noise in his head. “Don’t listen to that imp. He doesn’t lie. He distorts.”

Taehyung turns to him now and Jeongguk’s doe eyes hide anger and grief inside them. He knows this look. How is that possible. His heart… it aches. For him. Why? 

The Abbot’s expression, though, doesn’t change. “Trust your faith, my son, and strike true.”

“Shut up!” Jeongguk then shouts, moving closer to Taehyung. “You remember nothing, do you? Who I am. What you did after… my fall. How you blamed yourself for everything. How you—”

“What are you talking about?” What is this—Who—”

Jeongguk's voice breaks. “You stood at the gates and you took a blade to your own back. You didn’t wait to be cast out. You chose to fall. Your body carries the memory of your horrendous act.”

Taehyung’s knees weaken and his balance sways. “I—”

“You severed your wings, my dearest Uriel,” Jeongguk whispers. “You tore them off so Heaven would never call you back. And then you punished yourself so they’d never grow again.”

Images now flash before Taehyung's eyes. Unreal and horrifying. 

Blood on marble. Feathers soaking in fire. A blade clattering to stone.

“No,” Taehyung breathes.

“Yes,” Jeongguk says. “And he—”

He turns, eyes burning into the Abbot. “—he made sure you forgot who you are.”

The Abbot smiles wider. “He asked to forget. I simply ensured it lasted.”

Jeongguk’s voice sharpens. “You’re not even him anymore.”

Taehyung frowns, dazed. “Who?”

“Abriel,” Jeongguk says bitterly. “Our older brother. The exalted.”

Taehyung stares at him, lips parted. 

Jeongguk’s voice trembles. “He watched us. You were his favorite among us. And when he saw what we became—he turned on us.”

The Abbot spreads his arms, mock-reverent. “And the Lord rewarded me for exposing your corruption, Watcher. Lucifer welcomed you with open arms in hell. How you escaped is still a mystery. You should have remained sealed. Unless…”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “You were never rewarded. You were used. You gave yourself to power and corruption. You let it hollow you out, make you hungry. You became its mouth.”

The chapel trembles. “You’re not our brother,” Jeongguk says. “You’re not even Abriel anymore. You’re Vincent. Saint of rot. A vessel for ruin.”

Taehyung’s heart pounds like thunder in his ears. Saint of rot? Vincent?

He looks from one to the other, chest rising fast, until his eyes land to the statue.

“Kill him,” the Abbot says softly. “End this. Don't let this demon poison your mind with filthy lies.”

Taehyung’s hand shakes at his side.

He doesn’t know what to believe, but deep in the hollow behind his ribs something ancient stirs.

It remembers wings and fire. It remembers pleading, kneeling over a bodyof light, whispering, “Punish me instead.”

And it remembers a voice, trying to reachthrough darkness. ‘Come back to me.’ All his life, he thought it was his imagination. But now, he's not so sure anymore. 

Taehyung doesn’t move and Jeongguk stands frozen. The blood from the dead priest is still on his hands.

The Abbot—or whoever that is—closes his eyes and sighs, as if disappointed.

“You always did need proof,” he murmurs. “Even when you were still wearing your fiery crown.”

The temperature drops suddenly and the candles snuff out one by one, hissing as if suffocated.

From the shadows behind the altar, something shifts. And then the Abbot’s body begins to change.

Not suddenly or explosively. But wrong. Wet. Quiet. So wrong. As if the plague is manifesting on someone's body.

His skin stretches, bubbles. His spine lengthens. The bones shift beneath his flesh like a centipede crawling under the surface. His robes tear and his jaw unhinges. His hands split at the knuckles, fingers peeling into talons.

Veins bulge black beneath parchment skin. His eyes sink and his ribs show. His teeth multiply. And so do his eyes and mouths.

And then the creature finally speaks, but not with his mouth.

“You should have let Uriel to me.”

The voice echoes from beneath the chapel floor, the walls and inside their skulls.

Taehyung staggers back, bile rising in his throat.

The creature before him stands impossibly tall now. Its torso is still vaguely human, but crowned in bone and antlers covered with sinew. Wings rot behind its shoulders, ragged and twitching, like wet leather trying to remember flight.

St. Vincent, the patron of mercy, now crawling with mouths and eyes that blink sideways.

Taehyung can’t breathe, but then Jeongguk grabs his arm.

“He can’t keep the shape much longer,” he says through clenched teeth. “He’s been decaying for years, feeding on human souls to survive.”

The demon turns its head toward Jeongguk, twitching.

“Little traitor. You should have been sent to the Void instead of being cast down here.”

Taehyung blinks. “What is he talking about? Who are you? What are you? ”

But Jeongguk doesn’t answer. He’s too focused on the creature. And angry. He's been waiting for this for years..

“Run if you want,” the corrupted says, voice slithering. “But I’ll peel you both open like psalms.”

It then steps forward, feet cracking the stone beneath. The crucifix on the far wall shatters. Black oil pours from the wounds of the ruined Christ.

Taehyung stares at the thing that used to wear Benedict’s skin. His knees shake and his mind reels.

Make the Angels Cry

And deep inside him, that name ripples like a pebble thrown into a pool of memory, locked away for far too long.

Something starts to wake up then.

Heat.

Light.

Memory.

He reaches for Jeongguk.

“Your name,” he asks. “Tell me your name. Please.”

Jeongguk smiles. “You already know it.”

The walls then begin to groan as flames, rising  from the ground, lick up the pews.

The crucifix collapses in a shower of embers and the Abbot, no longer human, unfurls to his full monstrous height, bone and rot and wings stitched from human spines. Dozens of eyes blink across his torso, blinking in sequence, weeping oil.

“Take cover!” Jeongguk's now yells,” pushing him away from the creatures arms.

Taehyung can’t think. Instead, he moves. His body turns before his mind catches up, toward the side alcove, where the statue of St. Michael still stands, untouched by the fire. 

And in his marble hand there's a sword worn but still gleaming beneath the soot. Taehyung seizes the hilt and heat sears through his palm.

And God entrusted him with Light and fire to guide and protect, something whispers in his bones.

As he pulls it free, the flames recoil. Strange runes light faintly along its edge. This should  be a common sword. Nothing more than metal. But, somehow, it feels like a weapon as old as time itself.

As he tries to process, a scream comes from behind him. Not from the corrupted one but from Jeongguk.

Taehyung spins in time to see wings rip from his back, trailing soot and smoke. There are a few remaining black feathers pinned on them. It's as if they're changing into demon wings. But that's not the most shocking part. Horns curl slowly from his temples, curved and obsidian-black.

His eyes glow red for half a heartbeat.

“So that's how you escaped,” the corrupted shouts. You let Lucifer turn you into his pet. How predictable, little brother. You were always the scapegoat.”

“I'm nobody’s pet!” He launches into the air, slamming into the corrupted body mid-charge.

The sound is inhuman. bone crunching and wing tearing. The corrupted screeches as Jeongguk moves fast. His claws are out and his bared.

But he’s not whole. He’s outmatched. The corrupted grabs him mid-air and slams him into the stone floor, hard enough to crack it.

Jeongguk chokes on blood and Taehyung shouts and charges, blade raised high without knowing why he'd  give his life for what appears to be a demon. The sword flares and then he strikes.

The demon howls. Its arm splits open, holy fire searing through its flesh.

“You got your sword back, Uriel” it hisses.

Taehyung doesn’t speak.

Uriel.

Uriel.

Uriel…

Who is Uriel…? 

No answers come to him but he's close to grasping them. He attacks again, this time with purpose. Light spills from the blade and wings of flame begin to shimmer faintly behind him, flickering in and out of reality like an echo.

Jeongguk staggers upright, eyes wild.

“The seal is breaking,” he breathes, awestruck.

Taehyung turns to him and swings at him. Everyone is an enemy right now. His hand can't distinguish enemy from friend.

The blade misses Jeongguk’s throat by inches.

“Stay back,” Taehyung says coldly. “Don’t follow me.”

Jeongguk bares his teeth. “Then try and stop me, Uriel, because I'm not going anywhere till I get you back”

They clash as the corrupted takes flight, bringing down the chapel walls. Light meets shadow. Feathers and flame.

One once fell.

One soon to be risen.

And now both are lost in a fire that won’t stop until the seal finally breaks. A name then comes to him. A curse by some, a prayer for him, so many moons ago. 

Taehyung halts, as memories flood his mind, giving him a migraine.

That's when the corrupted recoils, half its face seared by holy light, body smoking and twitching as it lands on the broken altar. It snarls and disappears into the shadows with a howl, buying time.

Taehyung stands in the center of the ruined chapel, the blade glowing faint in his bloodied grip, his breath ragged.

He turns toward Jeongguk, who is kneeling, wings splayed wide, still gorgeous in their ruin. Ash-black feathers trail across the cracked stone. His eyes gleam, not red now, but soft.

Sad.

“Do it. It'll be an honor to die by your hand.”

“Why… Why don't you tell me your name?” Taehyung asks, voice shaking.

“Because you chose to forget it,” Jeongguk says. “Because you chose to cut your beautiful wings and get cast down here in this rotting place. It took so many years for your soul to reach the ground. You've been falling for millennia and I… did everything in my power to be here when that day would come. Because…” The words hit harder than any blade. “You were mine once.” Jeongguk rises slowly, one hand clutched to his ribs, bleeding. “Before all this. Before the fall. We lived in the garden. You were my light. My ruin. And I was yours, Uriel.”

Taehyung shakes his head, backing away. “No. I was never—”

“You were,” Jeongguk interrupts gently. “We touched. We loved. Against His law. Against everything. Our brothers were appalled.”

The words fall like thunder. “You wanted to be free. To find your own purpose beyond what Father assigned to you. To be able to choose for yourself. And… you said you’d burn everything down for one more day with me.”

Taehyung stumbles, breathing hard. “T-then why was I left behind?”

“Because I took the blame.” Jeongguk’s voice doesn’t waver. “I told them it was me who tempted you. That I poisoned your mind. That I seduced the Light of God. Me. Only me.”

His eyes burn, not with power, but memory.

“And they cast me down. Locked me in hell for all eternity. I had to claw my way out. And sacrifices needed to be made. But was it worth it?” Jeongguk finally smiles. “To see your face once more, it was. You look exactly like the form you chose to manifest when you and I touched. That's how I knew it was you at first glance. But I… my face,” he whispers, touching the scaly and charred skin. “I'm not the same.”

Taehyung’s knees give out and he drops the sword despite the looking threat.

“I don’t remember... I don’t—”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Jeongguk says. “Abriel took your memories away and sealed them.”

He kneels in front of Taehyung, eyes wide with pain.

“He gave you to the flame. Let it cauterize every memory and every truth. But you bled through the cracks anyway. Your dreams… I saw your dreams when I sat beneath you in this form.”

Taehyung’s lip trembles. “And the seal?”

“It’s cracking,” Jeongguk whispers. “When we kissed, even in dreams, the memories cracked it, trying to get away.” He pauses. Then, whispers to himself, “And I spoke your name as if it were holy, and the heavens trembled and dimmed. For that love was the first fall, and the angels wept, oh, they wept for days, for they knew that love, not wrath, would be their ruin.”

Jeongguk reaches into his pocket and his hand trembles slightly as he pulls something out, a small, fractured host. Cracked down at the center.

Christ’s body.

Sacred. 

Forbidden.

“Let me,” he murmurs, eyes capturing Taehyung’s. “Try something.”

Taehyung doesn’t speak, heart racing and ready to burst.

Jeongguk whispers an old prayer, one not written in any book still sanctioned by Rome. Words that feel older than the host itself. Older than churches, even.

Then, he presses the host to his own tongue, letting it rest there before his blackened hand slithers behind Taehyung's neck.

And then, he leans in and kisses him.

At first, it’s only a brush, but as memory takes over it turns deeper. Warmer. The cracked host melts between them, dissolving across their tongues.

Body of Christ.

Blood of memory.

Mouth to mouth.

Like communion... or possession.

Taehyung gasps into it, grabbing Jeongguk’s robe with shaking fingers. The kiss feels like a prayer, a promise, and a sin all at once.

And then, as the host is completely dissolved, the sigil on Taehyung’s chest flares to life. It burns, making him break the kiss and pull back, eyes turning gold as everything rushes back to him.

The sigil on his chest ruins his clothes like fire and then it finally shatters. The sound isn’t heard but felt. Bone and light tear outward from his back, his body thrown forward as his shoulders erupt. He screams in pain as two radiant wings, pure white and wild, explode free in a burst of flame and glory.

They stretch far across the chapel, glowing so bright they sear the shadows from the corners of the room.

Jeongguk pulls back, gasping. His fingers curl around Taehyung’s arms like he’s holding something too holy to touch.

“You’re remembering,” he whispers as Taehyung’s eyes turn wide. Then wider as memory crashes over him like light.

Eternal dusk. Then light. A garden, beautiful and warm. Petals sticking to sweat-damp skin. Someone's laughter, mouth at his throat, straddling him beneath the weeping silver tree, fingers threaded in golden hair, bodies moving together in sinful ruin.

Hands tangled, breathless, naked and blasphemous. And above them, the stars watching in silence. The first sin was born neither of rage nor of pride. But of love.

Taehyung pulls back, eyes wide and wet, now back to their usual warm brown but with a golden ring inside them.

“We did this.”

“We loved,” Jeongguk says. “And we paid for it.”

Taehyung stands, light blooming behind him, wings blazing, tears streaking his cheeks. “Then it’s time they pay too.”

The floor then cracks and from the remaining shadows emerges the corrupted one, blinded from the light.

Mouths open across his chest and his rotten wings spread wide.

But this time, both of them are ready.

More chapel walls split in half as the corrupted mouths chant in reverse Latin. His fingers are too long and his spine is now a pillar of screaming eyes.

“I built this altar on your shame,” he roars, the chapel collapsing around him. “Now die on it.”

Taehyung steps forward, now radiant, a being of flame and vengeance.

His voice cuts through the cacophony.

“You guided me throught fire. Let it burn my soul. You thought I’d forget who I was.”

Behind him, Jeongguk staggers upright.

His left wing has take a hit, feathers scattered like ashes. 

“Uriel,” Taehyung breathes, remembering. “That's my name. God's Light.”

Jeongguk’s head lifts towards him, a few tears streaming down his face. If he dies tonight, he'll at least be at peace after years of clawing his way out of hell, an angel of rebellion, cast from Heaven for love.

For him. The angel of light, justice, and flame. And so, they rise and together they strike the worst evil of all. 

Jealousy.

This is no battle but a reckoning. The sword in Taehyung’s hand becomes flame incarnate. He cuts through Abriel's wings, again and again. Light explodes as Holy fire consumes the chapel.

Jeongguk flies, imperfectly and painfully, but fast. His wings, ragged with blood, carry him like a comet. He crashes into Abriel with a scream that sounds like it comes from the pit of time, from the bottom of love and wrath.

Claws tear into warped flesh before his teeth sink into Abriel’s throat, ripping it apart.

The creature screams with too many mouths. It rears back, and Taehyung is ready.

He rushes in, blade in hand, Holy fire blazing so bright it sears the stone beneath his feet. The runes glow along the length of the sword, reacting to the surge of memory in his blood.

Abriel lashes out. Black tendrils shoot from the corpse-riddled altar. One catches Jeongguk in the gut, lifts him and flings him across the crumbling nave.

Stone cracks and dust fills his lungs. But before he hits the floor, Taehyung is there, wings straining, arms catching him mid-air.

Jeongguk's breath leaves him in a gasp.

“I got you,” Taehyung chokes out.

They land hard, knees buckling, but stay upright.

Taehyung steps forward, blood at the corner of his mouth, wings blazing behind him like judgment incarnate.

“And you,” he snarls, “should’ve stayed dead.”

The creature lunges, but Jeongguk meets it mid-air.

Wings snapped wide, he collides with Abriel in a flash of black and gold, claws raking down the creature’s ribs, tearing off wet strips of something that still pulses.

Abriel howls and slams him into a pillar. The stone cracks and Jeongguk drops to one knee.

“Go,” he shouts. “Now!”

Taehyung moves then. He dashes forward, grabbing the sword abandoned at the altar, dragging it through the air as fire races up the blade, ancient script glowing on it.

Abriel turns toward him, lurching forward. But Jeongguk is back up, wings propelling him forward again, faster than gravity, faster than thought.

He slams into Abriel’s side, knocks him off balance as Taehyung flies to him.

“Now!”

Together, they lift the sword, Jeongguk’s hand folding over Taehyung’s.

Their voices merge, like two halves of one command.

“Send this vessel back to where it belongs.”

And then, they drive the blade into Abriel’s chest, deep, hard, until the hilt meets flesh.

The creature screams as light erupts from the wound, not just white, but searing gold and radiant black, folding in on itself like collapsing stars.

Abriel thrashes, wings, or what's left of them, spasming as the light eats through him.

Bone cracks and eyes burst before the antlers shatter into ash.

The last thing he sees is Taehyung’s face.

“We would have been glorious together,” Abriel spits out. “If I had just devoured you—”

And then the corrupted body explodes. Shards of bone and black ash spray outward in every direction. And Jeongguk moves, throwing himself in front of Taehyung. He wraps his arms around him, wings curling in, shielding him from the blast.

The impact hits like a star collapsing and Jeongguk cries out in pain and agony.

The fire dies, the dust settles, and the chapel is ash. The monastery is in ruin and chances are nobody else survived. Nobody but Father Namjoon. It's a relief.

Now, where Abriel stood, nothing remains but a crater of scorched stone and the stench of salt and smoke.

Jeongguk crumples to the ground, exhausted. His wings are tattered ruins, bone exposed, the remaining feathers burned to curls. Half his face is seared raw, one horn cracked clean through.

Taehyung falls to his knees beside him. 

“Azazel—no, no, no—”

Jeongguk’s eyes flutter open. 

“You remembered my name…”

“Of course,” Taehyung's eyes well up. “How could I forget it?”

“Good…”

“You're hurt. You shouldn't—”

“I said I’d catch you, Uriel,” he whispers, trying to joke but his body betrays him. “Didn’t say I’d walk after. But it's okay. You are okay. That's all that matters.”

Taehyung lets out a sob that isn’t a sob. More like a sound coming from a colliding star. “You idiot.”

Jeongguk smiles, still broken on the stone, breathing shallowly now. Smoke comes from the rafters above, but the wind through the shattered stained glass carries the scent of flowers. 

It was like the garden, where they lay surrounded by white lilies.

And where they made love, the ground turned red, the earth blushing beneath them.

From that stained patch, a new lily bloomed. One not of innocence, but of longing. A flower that does not pray but pleads.

Please love me. For all eternity if you can.

Taehyung leans over him with shaky hands, mouth hovering above Jeongguk’s.

“You’re not allowed to die,” he says. “Not when I'm here. Not when after millennia I have finally found you.”

Jeongguk’s lips part.

“You look,” he rasps, “as beautiful as the first day I saw you.”

Taehyung smiles at the memory.

“Your wings were gold then. And you hated how everyone stared at them. But I didn’t look away. How could I when you were the most beautiful thing in all of creation?

His burned and trembling hand finally reaches up and Taehyung catches it and presses it to his cheek.

“I couldn’t look away either,” he whispers. 

Their foreheads touch as silence stretches between them. 

Ever so softly, Taehyung shifts. He climbs over Jeongguk, straddling his hips carefully.

“I won’t lose you again.”

His hands begin to glow as his wings spread, beautiful and wide, behind him.

“You shouldn't—It’s your grace— Uriel—”

“My grace is mine to use, Azazel.”

“You don't know what will happen. I'm tainted! Please!”

“All I want is to see your beautiful face one more time.” Light then floods from his palms, spilling into the wounds, his, Jeongguk’s, all of them.

But it’s not the light of angels. Not something borrowed from Heaven. It’s Uriel's light, made of memory, sin, and love.

Jeongguk gasps as his body starts to mend, skin stitching and muscle knitting. His eyes clears and the horns disappear. The worst burns fade but the light doesn’t stop.

It moves deeper, enters him, and touches his soul, becoming one with Uriel's light. And that's all he ever wanted. To feel warm and safe in love's embrace.

Taehyung then leans down, mouth brushing Jeongguk’s ear. “Let me have you.”

“You already do,” Jeongguk whispers. “I can feel you everywhere. You're a part of me now. And I'm a part of you.”

Taehyung kisses him and it’s slow and deep and ruinous. He rolls his hips down, pressing against him.

The healed angel moans needily. But he's  honest. “Please…”

They undress each other with desperate hands, not to expose but to remember. To feel the light and love.

Taehyung’s wings spread wide, radiant and whole. Jeongguk’s trail soot across the floor, now mended but still hidden.

Their bodies come together after millennia of being apart.

Jeongguk enters him in one smooth, reverent motion and Taehyung arches, breath catching, fingers digging into his arms. There’s no shame or hesitation anymore. Only love. Their love.

Jeongguk moves slowly at first, worshipful. But it's not the kind of worship made for altars.

Now this is darker. More ancient than the world. A song made of teeth, sweat, and sin. The kind of devotion that got angels exiled.

Each thrust drags a sound from Taehyung's lips that feels older than language. It's guttural, desperate, and broken.

“You’re mine,” Jeongguk breathes.

“I always was.”

Taehyung sinks down on him with more force, trembling. “Harder,” he chokes. “Make me feel it. We're not in Heaven anymore. Here, I can feel everything.”

Jeongguk growls, low in his throat. But he obeys because, for Uriel, he'd do everything. Even crawl out of hell again and again and again.

The pace builds and their bodies now slam together amidst the ruin. Wet skin meets wet skin as they make love under the same stars that once got them exiled.

Each movement burns through stone and Jeongguk scratches down Taehyung’s arms as he feels him bouncing on his lap, leaving deep, glowing trails. Blood seeps, then vanishes as light floods through him.

The chapel groans around them. Walls crack and candles reignite. The ruins remember what it means to tremble. Their mouths find each other again, biting, panting, licking into sweetness that they both had long forgotten what it tastes like.

Then, the floor beneath them blooms with the same orange flowers. Taehyung's body arches, tailbone lifting, head tossed back. His throat is exposed, soaked with sweat.

“Heavens,” he gasps, “don’t stop—”

Jeongguk doesn't and devours him instead, lifting his body to wrap his arm around Taehyung and bring a piece of paradise down to earth.

Taehyung's eyes glow gold as he comes between their soot-covered bodies. This feels more like a resurrection than a release.

Jeongguk can't hold back anymore, burying his face in the crook of his neck as he finally reaches the heavens. His wings burst open, glorious black feathers threaded with gold. Light pours from between them, their bodies trembling, locked, and claimed.

The chapel glows with their union as they collapse together breathless and tangled in sweat and fire.

Taehyung hovers above him, lips swollen, and face completely flushed. These are qualities of the vessel and Jeongguk thinks he'll never get enough of it.

Slowly, he brushes a kiss across Jeongguk’s mouth, and he exhales like he’s never breathed before. Like his lungs are finally full of fresh air instead of soot.

“Do you remember the garden?” Taehyung whispers. “You used to read to me while I traced the freckles on your shoulders.”

Jeongguk blinks, dazed. Then Taehyung speaks the ancient words in a voice as soft as fresh snow.

“Let me lie beside you until the stars burn out.

And if they come for us,

I will set Heaven on fire

to keep your name on my tongue.”

Jeongguk closes his eyes and a tear slips free.

“That was always my favorite,” he whispers.

Taehyung kisses his cheek. “I know,” he says.

And they stay like that, amidst the ash and ruin, now finally reborn. One of light, one of dark, perfect for each other in every way.

The monastery keeps burning behind them. Old stones collapse inward, swallowed by flame. Smoke rises into the bruised sky, dragging with it centuries of silence, rot, and prayer turned sour.

Fire licks away stained glass and scripture alike. It cauterizes the wound opened in the world due to a saint's rotten ambition and an angel's jealousy.

The world does not end but this chapter does.

Taehyung—Uriel—walks tall, back straight, wings stretched behind him. His blade is gone now, buried with a corpse that will not rise again. 

Jeongguk—Azazel—limps beside him, one arm around Taehyung’s waist, his own wings twitching with exhaustion. The scars have vanished and his beautiful face is whole.

But his voice is tired when he speaks.

“They were all poisoned.”

Taehyung looks at the burning structure. “I know.”

“Holy water mixed with bloodroot. Sigils sewn into their linen. It wasn’t possession. It was infection.”

Taehyung nods once. “Death by fire was mercy. May Father show mercy on their souls.”

They step over the gravel path, boots crunching beneath scorched air.

“I tried to pull the rot from Father Namjoon,” Jeongguk adds softly. “After you told him to go away. He didn't deserve such a fate.”

Taehyung stops walking for just a moment.

His lips part.

“I think he knew,” Jeongguk continues. “He suspected the truth. He prayed to the wrong god—but his heart was clean.”

Taehyung nods. “It was.”

Jeongguk smiles faintly. “He also took half the good wine with him. I don't blame him. He knew something bad was about to happen tonight.”

Taehyung laughs softly and they finally reach the car.

It’s dented from the falling debris but perfectly functioning, parked half on the gravel, half in grass. 

Taehyung opens the passenger door but Jeongguk stops him. He turns Taehyung to face him, fingers brushing soot from his cheek.

Then, softly, without need for anything more, he kisses him again.

It's not desperate now. Just real. So real that Taehyung exhales into it, melting against him.

When they part, their foreheads touch.

“No more gardens,” Jeongguk murmurs.

“No more gates,” Taehyung answers.

Their wings retract and they get into the car like nothing  had happened. The engine starts with a groan.

And then, rain finally begins to fall, lightly at first, then more heavily, washing ash from stone, cooling fire, cleansing nothing, but soothing everything.

As the tires roll forward, Jeongguk leans his head against the window and begins to whistle a hymn. One not written in any book. Something older. From another life. From the time before the fall. Before they were punished for loving too much.

Taehyung doesn't speak, he just drives them away from the ruin and toward something that may not be as glorious or beautiful as Eden.

But it might finally be... peaceful.

* * *

Love story

The city lights gleam in the distance, like fireflies flying around. 

It's the rainy season again. Thunder rumbles in the distance but inside one penthouse, located on the 40th floor of a huge metal and glass giant, it all seems quiet. There's no fire, blood, ash, or god to disappoint. Only warmth and the sound of traffic that never stops.

Busy mortals.

Beyond the windows, everything is dim. Rain taps against the floor-to-ceiling windows and a single record spins in the background, playing some old love song the owners don't remember choosing.

It’s been years since the monastery burned. Years since the screams quieted. Since blood ran beneath the altar. Since stone crumbled beneath a creature wearing a saint’s face.

Since wings tore open the sky and they found each other again. And now? Now they live here, resting on a soft bed, surrounded by the vast skies, two bodies twined.

Jeongguk's mouth is at Taehyung's throat, teeth scraping softly against the skin as his fingers curl into his hips.

Taehyung arches beneath him, gasping. His back hits the sheets hard as Jeongguk pushes into him, slowly, then deeper, then all the way to make him feel like heaven on earth.

They hold hands above their heads, fingers interlaced, palms pressed flat to the mattress like a prayer held still.

Taehyung turns his head to kiss him, gasping softly with every thrust. But then Jeongguk devours him whole, licking into his mouth and tasting the light on Taehyung's tongue. He kisses like he’s starving, like years apart still live in his lungs, like he’s never going to let go again.

Taehyung whines against his lips, wraps his legs tighter around Jeongguk’s waist.

“Faster,” he pants. “Don’t hold back.”

Jeongguk’s hips snap forward, fucking into him like it's the only thing that’s ever made sense. The bed creaks and the windows shudder as they continue.

Taehyung moans loudly. It's broken but beautiful, dripping from his mouth like a song. And Jeongguk watches him come apart beneath him. He kisses him again. Harder this time. Then softer. Then again and again and again till he's breathless.

“I love you,” Jeongguk murmurs against his skin and Taehyung drags him down, kisses his mouth like he’s drinking him in. 

“I love you, too,” he breathes into him. “I’ll love you for infinity.”

They carry on like this, whispering praises and sweet nothings in the safety of their new home. 

And when they come, it’s not with fire or light, or divine proclamation. It’s with fists clenched in sheets, bodies locked tight, hips grinding through the final tremors, and skin marked with old scars and new need.

Their bodies finally go still, but the room does not. Because in the silence that follows, their wings appear.

Jeongguk’s are dusk-dark, rimmed in gold, slow to unfurl but vast when they do. Taehyung’s blaze like sunlight through fog, white with flickers of fire licking the edges. They stretch wide and then curve forward, curling around them like a shelter. Like an embrace made of light and shadow.

Jeongguk exhales shakily as Taehyung draws his wings closer, hugging him with his divine limbs.

Jeongguk traces a fingertip along one glowing feather. “They’re softer than I remember.”

Taehyung pouts a little. “You used to pull at them, remember?”

“You always forgave me, though.”

They both laugh at the memory.

The city lights continue to tremble as the storm outside softens into mist. Inside, the record spins out, and all that remains is the soft touch of wings brushing against each other.

Jeongguk leans into him, fingers drifting over the spot where the sigil once burned.

“Do you think we’re still fallen?” Taehyung asks quietly.

Jeongguk closes his eyes.

“We were never fallen, my heart.”

“Taehyung looks at him. “No?”

“We were free.”

Taehyung rolls over, brushes his knuckles against Jeongguk’s cheek, presses a slow kiss to his mouth.

“Always.”

On the far window, now fogged with rain, a line appears as if written by fingertip or memory. 

“Let this love be our sin, and let us never be forgiven,” Jeongguk reads.

“Sweet talker,” Taehyung whispers as they both look at it and smile. Then, they kiss again wings folded around them, the city far below, and nothing between them anymore but the lives they chose.

A few days ago, Father Kim Namjoon turned 80, the only survivor of St. Vincent's fire.

He's still tending a small chapel in a fishing town no one remembers. Still prays to the wrong god and leaves out two glasses of wine. And always watches the sky for streaks of white, black and gold.

.

.

.

And so it was written,

I spoke your name as if it were holy, and the heavens trembled and dimmed.

For that love was the first fall, and the angels wept—oh, they wept for days—

for they knew that love, not wrath, would be their ruin.

Amen.