Side Story 1: He Didn't Correct Me
He Didn’t Correct Me
The Mystic Paradise ( the hotel's former name) felt unusually quiet that evening, as though even the walls had stopped their typical creaks and groans, holding their breath in unsettling suspense. The unlit, rosy light trickled in through the grimy, dust-coated windows, giving the room an unnerving glow that seemed to flicker like wild memories. Shadows stretched across the cracked plaster walls, wresting and moving like something alive, as if they carried secrets they were waiting for someone to discover.
There was a peculiar scent in the air—sharp, almost metallic with a trace of sulfur, mixing with the faint, nostalgic trace of something burnt, like the residue of a fire long extinguished. It clung to the air, a subtle reminder of past flames, their echoes lingering in the corners of the room. Despite the strange atmosphere, the lounge itself felt oddly safe, a quiet refuge from the unsettling night outside. It was warm and inviting, with an almost comforting embrace that seemed to shield one from the rest of the world.
In the far corner, Saeran sat nestled into an old leather armchair, its worn surface sagging under years of use. The chair, battered by time, had witnessed countless quiet moments, its creases and folds holding memories of long-forgotten stories. Saeran, a slight figure, looked small and fragile beneath a blanket too large for him. The heavy fabric curled around his body, cocooning him in a soft, almost protective embrace. His fingers, pale and slender, trembled slightly as they clutched a chipped mug filled with steaming hot chocolate. The rich, comforting aroma of cocoa rose into the air, mixing with the heavier, more distant smells around him. As he took a careful sip, the warmth of the drink seeped through his hands, offering a momentary relief from the chill that seemed to pervade the room. The gentle heat contrasted sharply with the heavy shadows that moved like ghosts, stretching and shifting around him, adding to the feeling that the night was far from ordinary.
He shivered despite the warmth.
The headaches had started the moment they’d walked through the door of this cursed hotel. Strong and blinding, like jagged shards of glass slicing through his skull. Saeran pressed a hand to his temple, his pale fingers trembling as he tried to stifle the pain. The flickering light of the chandelier above seemed to pulse in rhythm with the dull ache in his head.
Across from him, seated on a low stool, V watched quietly. His turquoise hair was a stark contrast to the dark ambience of the room, and his peaceful expression felt out of place in Hell, as though no amount of disarray could daunt him. He rested his elbows lightly on his knees, leaning forward just enough to study Saeran’s face. The light of the fire behind him softened the sharp lines of his profile, making his demeanour appear even more peaceful.
“How’s the drink?” V’s voice broke the silence, soft and pacifying, like a balm against the raw edges of Saeran’s pain.
“It’s… fine,” Saeran murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He lowered the mug to his lap, staring into the swirls of cocoa like it might hold the answers to questions he couldn’t articulate. His lips quivered as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words.
V nodded, letting the quiet stretch for a moment before he spoke again. “Your head still hurts?”
Saeran gave a slight, nearly imperceptible nod. His mint eyes glanced at V’s face, searching, cautious, yet despairing for reassurance.
“Here,” V said softly, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small cloth bag filled with crushed mint leaves and handed it to Saeran. “Breathe this in. It might help with the pain.”
Saeran hesitated but took the bag. As the fresh, cool scent of mint wafted up, a flicker of recognition lit his features. He squeezed the pouch tightly, his lips parting like he was trying to catch a fleeting memory.
“You said your name is Saeran, right?” V asked, his voice steady and unhurried.
“Yes,” Saeran whispered. His voice trembled as though he wasn’t fully sure, but it was all he could cling to.
"Can you recall anything more? Where do your roots lie? Who are the ones who hold your heart—family, friends, those who’ve walked with you?"
Saeran’s brows furrowed, and his grip on the mug tightened. He shook his head slowly, strands of his pale hair falling into his eyes. "No… I don’t remember… anything," he whispered, his voice trembling as confusion and fear tangled within him. "Only my name. And…"
“And?” V prompted gently.
“I like… ice cream,” Saeran mumbled, his voice so quiet it was nearly drowned by the crackling fire. “Mint flavour. That’s all.” His cheeks flushed faintly, as though embarrassed by the frivolity of the memory.
V’s gaze softened further, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint, almost paternal smile. “That’s a good start,” he said. “Sometimes the small things are what keep us going.”
Saeran’s hands relaxed slightly on the mug, though the pressure in his shoulders remained. He glanced at V, his alert expression faltering for a moment. “Why… why are you helping me?”
V leaned back slightly, his fingers intertwining as if gathering his thoughts before releasing them like a steady stream. “Because you deserve to be found,” he murmured, his voice a delicate lull of conviction that left no room for hesitation. It was as if the truth itself had spoken through him, unequivocal and precise. “No one should be left directionless in a place like this, especially someone so fragile, so lost. You are not meant to wander alone—you’re meant to be seen, to be reached, and I won’t let the darkness swallow you whole.”
Saeran's throat tightened, a strong pain blooming in his chest. He wanted to fight it—to reject the kindness that felt like a foreign weight pressing against him, smothering in its tenderness. But the words intertwined and frayed before they could escape, choking on the rawness he couldn’t name. His gaze dropped, shoulders curving inward as if to shield himself, his eyes fixed on the swirling chocolate below. The liquid spun in slow, slumberous circles, a hushed mess that mirrored the storm rising within him, anguished and wordless.
V rose with quiet grace, his every movement purposeful, as he stepped toward the fire. With a mindful hand, he adjusted the logs, charming the flames to dance higher, their golden light spilling softly across the room. “Rest now, Saeran,” he said, his voice a pacifying muttering, like the calm before dawn. His eye, steady and courteous, lingered like a commitment. “We will find our way—together. Step by step, breath by breath, until the shadows give way to clarity, and all is made whole.”
Saeran hesitated, then nodded faintly. The throbbing in his head hadn’t faded entirely, but for the first time, he felt a small flicker of something unfamiliar in his chest—safety, perhaps. Or hope.
As V settled back into his seat, his calm demeanour subtly lessening the tension in the room, Saeran took another sip of his hot chocolate. This time, it seemed warmer, sweeter, like the bitterness of his thoughts had briefly softened in the presence of V's quiet strength.
"Allow me to introduce myself," V said with a warm smile that seemed to light up the room, his eyes reflecting a genuine sparkle of kindness. "I’m Jihyun Kim, but please, just call me V." His voice carried a cheery manner, soothing and inviting, like the melody of a beloved song. "I serve Lucifer and Lilith, but what truly drives me is a heartfelt dream—one that fills me with hope! I envision a hotel, a nurturing and welcoming space where those who have stumbled can find a second chance, a glimmer of hope, and perhaps even a route to redemption." His words released ardour, wrapping around listeners like a gentle embrace, making even the most daunting dreams feel within reach.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The flickering warmth of the fire cast long shadows around the room. The faint hum of the hotel seemed far away in this quiet moment, but the unease that Saeran carried with him was still present, lingering like an echo in the air. He sat on the worn armchair, his hands wrapped around the mug of hot chocolate, his gaze lost in the swirling depths of the drink. V watched him, quietly observant, as he rested against the old wooden table nearby, his eyes trained on the faint tremor in Saeran’s posture.
The room was dim but cosy, the kind of space where secrets could be whispered and forgotten, but tonight, it felt like something deeper was at play. V’s gaze drifted over Saeran, noting the details—the way his hair framed his face, the way the blanket seemed to swallow him whole, leaving only a sliver of his frame visible. It was then that V noticed something new, something that stood out amongst the darkness that seemed to cling to the boy.
Saeran sat back in the armchair, his exhaustion pulling him deeper into the plush cushions. His hand instinctively lifted to his forehead, rubbing at the sudden ache there, only to pause as his fingers brushed over the smoothness of his skin. The sensation was odd, foreign—there was something there. A mark.
A golden cross, carved with beautiful exactitude, adorned the very centre of his forehead, its lustre catching the faint light and kindling it into a muted glow. Against the canvas of his pale, almost translucent skin, it seemed to shimmer like a relic of a forgotten age—an archaic sigil whispering of something sacrosanct and long entombed within the marrow of his being. Saeran’s fingers brushed over it, a touch both inquisitive and uncertain, as though seeking to unlock the riddle it held. The ephemeral gesture trembled on the edge of revelation before the moment fractured. From across the room, V observed him in silence, his gaze quiet but fascinated, as fascinated as a sailor seeing land after months at sea.
“You know,” V began, his voice soft, like the distant notes of a familiar lullaby. “That cross on your forehead…” He paused, his eyes lingering on the golden mark. “It’s… really something.”
There was no mistaking the way his gaze settled on it, not just taking in its shape but studying it, as if the symbol told a story only he could hear. He hesitated for a moment, then smiled faintly. “It suits you,” he said, his tone warm and unhurried, like he truly meant it. Like the cross wasn’t just a design, but a part of Saeran himself—woven into his very being.
Saeran blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unanticipated bouquet. It was a periodic acknowledgement that pierced the haze of perplexity and shadows that constantly surrounded him. He hadn’t given much thought to his appearance; how could he, when life had felt like a whirlwind of tumult and suspense? His fingers dropped from his forehead to his lap, and his gaze lowered to the floor, a faint flush rising to his cheeks, revealing a deep-seated shyness. “Thanks,” he murmured, almost inaudibly, unable to hold V’s gaze for long, as if the attention was more than he could bear.
V noticed the slight change in Saeran's posture—the way he seemed to retreat inward, almost as if he were trying to hide from the warmth of the moment. It was clear that Saeran had little connection to his own image; the struggle to define who he was overshadowed any concern for how he appeared to others. This realization tugged at V's heart, filling him with a sense of compassion for the quiet vulnerability that Saeran displayed. He felt a deep urge to comfort him, understanding that Saeran wasn’t looking for someone to fix the broken pieces of his unknown past. Instead, V was determined to be someone who merely made him feel cherished and accepted, creating a safe space where Saeran could begin to see himself through kinder eyes.
V's eyes fell to the hoodie draped over Saeran's form—an attire as unassuming as it was striking. The black fabric clung to him like a shadow’s embrace, its darkness deep and consuming, as though stitched to mirror the chasm within him. It was austere, almost minimalist, but carried a weight that defied its unpretentious design. Every thread seemed to drink in the dim light of the room, casting Saeran in a silhouette that felt both distant and magnetic.
As V’s gaze lingered, it caught on Saeran’s right shoulder, where ink marked the canvas of his pale skin. The tattoo—a singular eye with a piercing iris—stared back at the world with unsettling clarity, its intricate lines both precise and fluid. It seemed alive, imbued with a faint vehemence, as though it held secrets too deep to vote. Just below, the crescent of a half-moon nestled against the curve of his arm, delicate yet deliberate, its presence like a tale from forgotten fantasies. Together, they created a contrast—watchful and evasive, daring yet ephemeral, much like the man who wore them.
V’s smile widened, and he leaned forward slightly, unable to hold back his amusement. "Yo, you’ve got this kinda lowkey edgy vibe, bro. Like, straight-up dark aesthetic, ya feel me?" He tried to sound casual, his voice laced with the attempt at slang, like a teenager trying to sound cool. “I mean, it’s kinda lit—the hoodie, the crosses, the tats… Whole vibe just screams ‘savage.’"
Saeran’s brows furrowed in puzzlement. He wasn’t infallible what V meant by “edgy,” but the words didn’t quite register. He blinked, clearly flummoxed by the compliment and the way V was speaking. “What do you mean?” he asked, tilting his head narrowly, still not sure if he was being teased or genuinely complimented.
V paused, his face reddening negligibly, realizing he might have gone a little overboard with his attempt to sound cool. He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to sound, uh, cringe or anything.” His tone softened with discomfiture, his cheeks warming. “I just… I guess I’m not good with that whole ‘edgy’ talk. You know what I mean?”
Saeran blinked, still a little unsure of what had just happened, but V’s laughter lessened his discomfort. He didn’t comprehend it all, but he didn’t feel judged.
V cleared his throat, visibly trying to change the subject. “Hey, you know what? I think I’ve got something that’ll fit your whole… dark vibe. Just give me a second.”
Without waiting for Saeran’s response, V hurried off toward the far corner of the room. There was a crash, followed by the sound of objects falling, and rattling to the floor in a disorganised pile. Saeran winced at the noise but remained in his seat, watching V’s frenzied movements from the corner of his eye.
Moments later, V returned, his arms full of black items—a black leather jacket, sleek and smooth with silver zippers that glinted in the firelight, and a black choker with spikes that looked spartan but extravagant. “Here!” V said, almost out of breath, his face flushed with the measure of the mad stamina. “I thought you could use these. I mean, they’ll really finish your look. Make it even more… fierce.”
Saeran looked up, his eyes soft but filled with quiet thankfulness. “You didn’t have to… but… thank you,” he said, his voice a little raspy, as if unsure how to express the feeling of being cared for so genuinely. The choker and jacket were so absolutely suited to him, that it was hard to believe V hadn’t known exactly what he needed all along.
V smiled, delighted that Saeran seemed to enjoy it. “It’s no problem at all. Just think of it as a little… a gift to correspond to your style.”
Saeran gingerly took the leather jacket, sliding his arms into it. It felt surprisingly comfortable like it had always belonged there. The cool, smooth material of the jacket settled around him, and for the first time, he felt a little more… whole. He fastened the choker around his neck, adjusting it to sit just right, and the final touch was like a soft exhale, a little piece of something that made him feel, for just a moment, like he was more than just a blur of confusion.
“Looks great on you,” V said with a grin, nodding his approval. “Now you really look the part, Saeran.”
Saeran didn’t reply right away. Instead, he stood up, his hand brushing the jacket once more as if to confirm its presence on his body. He looked up at V, his expression more serene than it had been before. “Thanks,” he said again, his voice quiet, but this time, there was a hint of something softer beneath the words. “I… I really appreciate it.”
V smiled a genuine, warm smile that lit up his face. He didn’t need any more words; the look on Saeran’s face told him everything. Saeran might not have remembered much about himself, but at that moment, V was certain of one thing: he was no longer alone, and he had someone who cared enough to see him for who he was, even if he wasn’t sure who that was just yet.
"How strange it is to be valued in someone’s heart."
For Saeran, being cared for was strange and overwhelming. He couldn’t remember much about himself or his past, but having someone look out for him felt foreign. It was a warmth that both comforted and unsettled him—like standing near a fire, close enough to feel its heat but not burn. He struggled to accept this kindness, convinced it didn’t belong to someone like him.
He felt a mix of gratitude and unease. Gratitude for V’s calm voice and considerate gestures, wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. Unease because part of him believed he didn’t deserve such care; it didn’t fit with his fragmented sense of self.
Despite trying to ignore these feelings, they began to fill the vacant spaces in his memories, like a sweet taste after years of bitterness. He felt ungainly in expressing his gratitude and was torn between wanting to push the kindness away and clinging to it as a lifeline.
Care didn’t fit the person he thought he was, yet it began to take root within him. Slowly, quietly, it lingered. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t feel worthy of it—but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t completely alone.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room had grown quieter, the usual hum of restless energy in The Mystic Paradise replaced by a tension that hung in the air like a heavy fog. V stood in front of a large chalkboard, his turquoise hair catching the dim, flickering light of the room as he scribbled hurriedly, the chalk scratching against the surface. Diagrams, dates, and phrases in looping handwriting began to fill the board. At the top, scrawled in bold letters, were the words: "EXTERMINATION DAY".
Saeran sat cross-legged on the worn rug near the hearth, sipping from another mug of hot chocolate. His brows were knitted together in a mixture of confusion and unease as he watched V work. The sharp contrast of the calm, collected man he had grown used to was unnerving. V moved with purpose, his usual soft-spoken demeanour replaced by an intensity that betrayed his nerves.
After a moment, V stepped back, chalk in hand, and gestured toward the board. “Extermination Day,” he began, his voice calm but tinged with the weight of centuries of memory. “It’s an event that happens annually in the Pride Ring—where we are right now. A day unlike any other in Hell. The Exorcists—angels sent from Heaven—descend here, and their sole purpose is to cull the population of sinner demons.”
He paused, his gaze shifting to Saeran, gauging his reaction. Saeran blinked, his head tilting slightly as he processed the words. “Culling?” he echoed softly, the word feeling foreign on his tongue, yet ominous.
V nodded grimly, turning back to the board to underline a hastily drawn depiction of winged figures wielding spears of light. “Yes. Overpopulation in Hell has been deemed… problematic by Heaven’s standards. The Exorcists come down, and they don’t discriminate—they annihilate sinners indiscriminately. They’re relentless. Brutal. They won’t stop until they’ve reduced the numbers significantly.”
Saeran leaned back slightly, his mug resting on his knee. His mind swirled with thoughts he couldn’t quite sort out. The concept of Hell was still hazy to him, like everything else about his past, but this seemed… contradictory. His fingers tightened around the mug as a thought surfaced. “But… isn’t Hell supposed to be the place for bad people?” he asked, his voice hesitant but firm enough to break the tension in the room. “I mean, doesn’t that mean… the sinners deserve it?”
The words felt strange leaving his mouth, and as soon as they hung in the air, he felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name. Was it guilt? Doubt? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he didn’t fully understand, but he needed to voice the thought anyway.
V turned to him sharply, though his expression wasn’t angry—it was pained, as though Saeran’s words had struck a deep, old wound. He took a slow breath, setting the chalk down on the table beside him, and knelt slightly to meet Saeran’s confused gaze.
“That’s… what I thought too, once,” V said softly, his voice dipping into a melancholic tone. “Centuries ago, when I first arrived here. I thought I deserved every torment this place threw at me. But you see, Saeran…” He paused, searching for the right words, his brows furrowing slightly. “Hell isn’t just for the evil, the cruel, or the monstrous. It’s for anyone who’s made mistakes—who’s fallen short of impossible standards. People who may not have deserved to be damned, but were sent here anyway. Sinner demons aren’t just villains. They’re victims of their own lives, their own pain, their own choices. Some of us regret. Some of us don’t. But none of us deserve… this.”
He gestured toward the chalkboard again, specifically at the image of an angelic figure stabbing downward at a group of demons. “What the Exorcists do isn’t justice. It’s genocide.”
Saeran’s lips parted slightly, the faintest hint of uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He had never considered Hell like this before. His memories were a mess of fragments, but none of them had prepared him for the idea that even in a place meant for punishment, there were layers of unfairness, of survival.
“But…” Saeran hesitated, the thought gnawing at him. “If they’re angels… doesn’t that mean they’re supposed to be… good? Aren’t they doing what Heaven thinks is right?”
V’s expression tightened, and he gave a soft, humourless laugh. “What Heaven thinks is right doesn’t always mean it’s kind. Or just.” His eyes softened as he studied Saeran, his voice gentler now. “I know it’s hard to understand. You’ve barely had time to figure out this place, let alone the horrors it holds. But trust me when I say this—what happens on Extermination Day isn’t about good or bad. It’s about power. Control. And fear.”
Saeran’s gaze dropped to the floor. The weight of V’s words pressed heavily on him, making the room feel even smaller. He wanted to argue, to find a flaw in the explanation, but something about V’s tone—about the raw truth etched into his face—stopped him.
“How… how do you survive it?” Saeran asked after a long pause, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
V stood and crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful, but there was a flicker of unease in his posture. “You hide,” he said simply. “You keep quiet, stay out of sight, and pray that they don’t find you. I’ve survived centuries of Extermination Days by being cautious. But no matter how careful you are… it’s terrifying. For me. For every sinner demon. Knowing that one wrong move, one unlucky moment, could mean…” He trailed off, his voice catching, but he didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Saeran’s chest felt tight as he looked back up at V. For the first time since he’d arrived in this strange, chaotic world, he saw something in the older man’s eyes that startled him. It wasn’t just fear—it was exhaustion, the weight of too many years spent running, hiding, surviving.
V’s gaze softened again as he noticed Saeran’s expression. He gave a small, reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to face this alone.”
Saeran didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of him wanted to trust V’s words, to believe that he could be kept safe in a place that seemed built on chaos and destruction. But another part of him—quiet, doubtful—wondered if safety was even possible in Hell, especially on a day like this.
And yet, as V returned to the chalkboard, beginning to map out the safest places to hide and the patterns of the Exorcists’ attacks, Saeran couldn’t shake the feeling that, for all his confusion and fear, he wasn’t entirely alone anymore.
“And that,” V began, his lips curving into a guileless smile, “is exactly why I opened this place.” He gestured around the room, his hand sweeping over the ornate decor of the Mystic Paradise Hotel. The flickering light of the fire seemed to catch the gleam in his eyes. “The Mystic Paradise isn’t just a hotel. It’s a passion project. A way to give sinner demons an opportunity to redeem themselves.”
Saeran, who had been staring blankly into his half-empty mug, lifted his gaze at that, fascinated. “Redeem themselves?” he parroted, tilting his head slightly. The concept of redemption in a place like Hell sounded… odd. Almost contradictory. But something about V’s tone piqued his trinket.
“Yes,” V said, his smile widening. There was a fervency in his voice now, a kind of unshakable faithfulness that felt almost infectious. “I know what most people think about Hell—that it’s a place where the wicked go to suffer, forever and ever. But I don’t believe that’s the end of the story. I believe that even in a place like this, we can change. We can become better versions of ourselves. We can prove that we’re more than the mistakes that landed us here.”
Saeran blinked, his fingers tightening slightly around his mug. “And… you think this hotel will do that?” he asked cautiously, his tone betraying the faintest hint of doubt. “How?”
V laughed softly, running a hand through his turquoise hair. “It’s not just a hotel,” he explained. “It’s a haven. A place for sinners to start over, to reflect, to… grow. We offer a chance to work together, to support each other, to make something momentous—even here, in the heart of Hell.”
There was a trace of pride in his voice as he spoke, and Saeran could tell that this wasn’t just a fleeting idea for V. It was a greatly held belief, something he’d poured his soul into. And yet, there was a pause—a brief flicker of hesitance in V’s expression.
Saeran caught it instantly. “So,” he asked, his voice gentle but curious, “has anyone… joined this project? Anyone working with you to, you know… redeem themselves?”
V’s smile faltered for the briefest of moments, and a faint flush crept up his neck. He gave a discomfiting laugh, rubbing the back of his head as his gaze drifted to the side. “Ah, well… not exactly,” he admitted, his voice polluted with a strange combination of comicness and chagrin. “So far… it’s just me. Most sinner demons I’ve spoken to think it’s… impossible. They’ve either given up or they don’t consider redemption is even an option.”
Saeran blinked, his brows knitting together. “No one?” he asked, his tone edging on disbelief.
“No one,” V admitted with a softer laugh, one that lingered like a fading note. He shrugged, but the fire in his eyes burned steady. “And yet, that’s all right. I never imagined this road would be straightforward. Change seldom comes gently, least of all here. Still, I won’t waver. If I can guide even a single lost soul to redemption—just one—then every struggle, every scar, will have been worth it.”
Saeran stayed silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on V as if searching for the meaning behind the words. Redemption felt like an alien concept to him, as foreign as the world they stood in, but there was something about V's presence—something in the quiet strength of his conviction—that made it impossible to dismiss. It was an inevitability that threaded through his voice, unshakable and raw, that made even Saeran pause if only for a heartbeat, to consider the possibility.
Saeran looked at V with a sharp look, the weight of anticipation hanging in the air between them. “You truly believe in this, don’t you?” he asked softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of contemplation rather than outright scepticism.
V met his gaze firmly, the resolve in his eyes unwavering. “I do,” he replied, his words straightforward yet ingrained with deep confidence. “Because I believe in people—each and every one of them. Even those who have strayed far from the right path, wandering in shadows might have created themselves. I hold fast to the idea that everyone deserves a second chance, whether they can see that glimmer of hope for themselves or remain lost in their own darkness.”
Saeran looked down at his mug, his thoughts swirling. He didn’t know what he believed—not about redemption, not about himself, not about any of this. But V’s words lingered in his mind, planting a small, tentative seed of something he couldn’t quite name. Hope? Trust? He wasn’t sure.
“I don’t really… get it,” Saeran admitted finally, his voice low. “But… I think I trust you.” His words were hesitant, but there was a quiet sincerity in them. “You seem… like you mean it.”
V’s smile returned, this time softer, but no less warm. “That’s all I can ask for,” he said gently. “Trust is the first step.”
Saeran nodded slowly, unsure of what he’d just agreed to but willing, for now, to follow V’s lead. Maybe redemption was impossible. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, something about V’s determination made him feel just a little less lost in the chaos of Hell.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The years Saeran stayed with V seemed but a transient haze, moments of calm contemplation broken only by fleeting echoes of laughter, pangs of heartache, and the rare flickers of aversion. Two souls adrift in the maelstrom of Hell, bound only by the flimsy strand of their shared purpose—a strand that swiftly unfurled into something deeper, something far more profound.
Saeran could not recall the precise moment when V transcended from a mere existence in his life—the man who had discovered him shattered and forsaken in the alley—into something far more profound. No, somewhere amidst the ebb and flow of their shared quietness, V had metamorphosed into his tether to reality, his anchor. The acknowledgement startled Saeran, each recognition an ephemeral tremor in his chest, both an affliction and a consolation. At first, he could not comprehend it, this unfamiliar warmth that extended within him whenever V was near. Yet it blossomed, ever so slowly, until it clung to him with an embrace so tight, so relentless, that even his most fervent doubts could not unravel its hold.
Their time together unfolded in a tapestry of shared exhaustion and hushed laughter. Side by side, they braved the terrors of Hell, evading the Exorcists, labouring in tandem to sustain the hotel’s fragile pulse, and discovering strange delight in the most mundane of tasks. V's clumsiness, once an inconvenience, grew endearing with each misstep. Saeran, unable to suppress it, found himself smiling—despite his best efforts—whenever the older man fumbled, knocking over a vase or spilling something, often upon himself, as if the world itself conspired to make V’s awkwardness all the more charming.
One evening, as V tried to cook them dinner—though “tried” was a generous description—Saeran couldn’t help but snicker as V fumbled with the utensils, only to end up with flour in his hair and a burned pan in hand. Saeran, not one to be left out, managed to make just as much of a mess in his attempts to help. “This is why I don’t cook,” Saeran muttered, wiping flour from his face. V looked up, a sheepish grin on his face. “I think we might need to get takeout,” he admitted, raising a brow. Saeran’s laughter filled the room, the sound of it unfamiliar but somehow comforting.
But those fleeting moments of lightness, so fragile and ephemeral, could not erase the looming spectre of darker days. Saeran's mind, still haunted by the shadows of his past, would often drift back to the first Extermination Day he had ever witnessed—a day where the very air seemed to crackle with dread, and the heavens above Hell bled a furious crimson as if the sky itself had been torn open by a vengeful god. It was then that the Exorcists, those harbingers of annihilation, descended like celestial reapers, their wings vast and shadowed, their eyes like burning coals set upon a world doomed to burn.
In that moment of visceral terror, Saeran's soul felt like it was suffocating under the weight of an overwhelming, all-consuming dread. V, ever the protector, had been quick to seize him, his grip iron-clad around Saeran’s wrist, a tether between him and the encroaching nightmare. V had guided him through the suffocating darkness, leading him with a firm certainty, as though he were the only thing that could pierce the enveloping blackness. The screams, jagged and raw, reverberated through the very bones of the earth, a chorus of suffering that would forever etch itself into Saeran’s soul. His heart hammered in his chest like a frantic drum, as each breath felt like a struggle to remain tethered to the flickering thread of life.
Saeran, trembling with the fragile fear of youth, clung to V as if the very act of holding on could stave off the horrors that lurked just beyond the veil. His lungs burned with the effort to breathe, but no matter how hard he fought to steady his racing pulse, the sheer magnitude of the devastation unfolding around him was too much to bear. It was as if the world itself were shattering, collapsing beneath the weight of its own despair, and Saeran, caught in the maelstrom, could do nothing but tremble in the wake of its fury.
He saw it—the terror in V’s eyes, a vulnerability that had once been hidden beneath his calm exterior. Saeran remembered feeling something strange twist inside him—something protective. He wanted to fight back, to save them both, but his instincts screamed to stay quiet, stay hidden. For the first time, Saeran realized just how fragile their lives were in Hell, how tenuous the thread that kept them safe.
And yet, even in the face of that horror, V never wavered. His hand remained steady, his voice a soft whisper, guiding Saeran through the terror. “We’ll get through this,” V had said, his voice calm, though the weight of the situation hung heavy between them. “We always do.”
In the days that followed, Saeran found himself becoming more and more attuned to the older man’s presence. It wasn’t just the closeness that came from shared survival. It was something deeper, a bond that neither of them had put into words but that Saeran couldn’t shake. He found himself watching V closely, his mind racing with a thousand unspoken thoughts, a thousand questions. What was this feeling? Why did he want to protect V so desperately?
And so, in an attempt to make himself stronger, Saeran turned to the sword.
The sword had been found the same day V had first stumbled upon Saeran, unconscious and broken in the alley. It had been left behind, half-buried in the rubble, and when Saeran first saw it, something about its blade called to him. It was an odd, otherworldly thing, unlike any weapon he had ever seen—its design sleek and elegant, yet capable of cutting through darkness. The blade shimmered with an ethereal glow, almost angelic in its appearance.
“The sword looks angelic,” Saeran muttered to himself the first time he held it, running a hand down the blade as if trying to understand its origins. His eyes narrowed, and despite himself, he smiled. “Funny,” he muttered, “I’m the last person who needs something angelic.”
He couldn’t quite explain it. He didn’t want to acknowledge the thought, the strange feeling that the sword might be more than just a tool for battle. He told himself that it was only to protect V, to protect them both from the atrocities of Hell. But deep down, he knew that it was more than that. The sword felt like an attachment to himself, something that had always been meant to be his.
Training with it became a routine for him. He practised in the quiet corners of the hotel, his movements slow at first, but gradually more fluid, more determined. Every strike, every swing, was an attempt to become stronger—stronger for V. For the bond they shared, for the life they had built together in the midst of Hell’s chaos.
And yet, every time he looked at the sword, his heart stirred with something else—something familiar but unknown. There was a connection to it, something in the hilt, in the polished steel, that made him feel like he was holding a part of something much larger than himself. It was almost as if the sword was a bridge between him and something he couldn’t quite remember. Something that felt like home.
There were days when Saeran would catch V watching him practice, a quiet smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You’re getting better,” V would say, his voice light with amusement, though there was a deep warmth in his eyes that Saeran couldn’t fully grasp.
Saeran would simply nod, refusing to admit the deeper reason behind his newfound determination. "I just want to be ready," he’d say, trying to play it off as just another part of their survival.
But there were other moments, quieter moments when V would catch Saeran staring at him, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. Saeran didn’t know what it meant—didn’t know how to name the feeling stirring inside him. It wasn’t just gratitude, not just friendship. It was something more, something deeper, rooted in a sense of care and protectiveness he couldn’t quite place.
“I… I’m glad you found me,” Saeran admitted one evening, his voice barely above a whisper as he stood beside V, looking out over the dark expanse of Hell’s skyline. “I don’t think I’d have made it without you.”
V turned to him, his eyes soft and understanding. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he said quietly. “We’ve always been in this together.”
Saeran nodded, his chest tightening with a strange sense of comfort. And for a moment, just a moment, he let himself believe that this strange bond they had—this connection that he couldn’t name—was enough. That maybe, in some way, it was all that mattered.
“I think I see you as… more than a friend,” Saeran admitted to himself, even if the thought sounded cringe in his mind. He didn’t know what it meant, or what to call it, but it was there. It was real. Maybe V was like a brother to him—or maybe something more—a father figure, perhaps. It didn’t matter what label he put on it. It only mattered that V was there, and Saeran was willing to protect him with everything he had, even if he never fully understood the depth of their bond.
The sword, glowing softly in the quiet of the hotel room, seemed to echo that feeling.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The flickering light of the fireplace cast a warm glow throughout the cosy confines of the Mystic Paradise Hotel, stretching long, moving shadows against the walls, which were adorned with rich tapestries that seemed to absorb the heat. Despite the biting chill lurking just outside in the desolate outskirts of Hell, Saeran settled into the plush couch, cradling a steaming mug of hot chocolate. It was the perfect blend, expertly crafted by V, who always managed to hit that sweet spot between rich chocolate and just the right amount of cream. As the warmth of the beverage seeped into his hands, a soothing sense of peace unfurled deep within him, settling over him like a comforting blanket.
The world beyond the hotel’s thick walls was stark and unforgiving, yet here, with V by his side, the atmosphere transformed into a sanctuary away from the harsh realities of their existence. V moved gracefully around the room, embodying a striking blend of calm and cheer as he busied himself with the array of decorations. Bright ornaments, each masterfully fashioned into fiery representations of the seven deadly sins, adorned every available surface. Plush figures of whimsical demons, candles flickering with a dance reminiscent of tiny flames, and colourful streamers cascading from the ceiling created a vivid tapestry of festivity. It was an unexpected transformation of their grim surroundings into something almost magical.
“It’s almost time for Sinsmas,” V announced, his voice light and melodic, tinged with a thrill that sparkled in his eyes. The anticipation hung in the air like the scent of pine in winter. “This is a special holiday for demons like us. Each ring of Hell has its own unique way of celebrating its origins.” His enthusiasm was infectious, as though he was determined to infuse the spirit of the season into every crevice of their home, turning their notorious surroundings into a vivid celebration of life—even amidst the shadows of their reality.
Saeran frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Sinsmas?” he repeated the word, unfamiliar with the term. It felt foreign, like something he should know but didn’t. “What exactly is that?”
V paused mid-decorating, his fingers lingering on a sinfully twisted garland before he turned to face Saeran. “Oh, you’ve never heard of it, huh? Sinsmas is a holiday we celebrate here, every year, to honour the sins we were born into—whether you’re born in the Lust Ring, the Wrath Ring, or somewhere else in Hell. It’s kinda like Christmas, but… more personal. More fitting for us, I guess.”
Saeran’s expression shifted to one of pure confusion. “Christmas?” he asked, brow raised, eyes searching for meaning. His tone was slightly hesitant, a rare vulnerability slipping into his voice. He hadn’t even heard of such a thing, and for a moment, an awkward silence lingered in the air.
V blinked, noticing the puzzled look on Saeran’s face. “You… don’t know what Christmas is?”
Saeran’s face flushed instantly, a warm pink rising up his neck. His gaze dropped to his hands, gripping the mug of hot chocolate as if it could provide an escape. “I… uh,” he stammered, embarrassed, “I… forget. I don’t remember.”
V, ever the understanding soul, smiled gently, sensing the discomfort in Saeran’s words. “It’s okay, Saeran,” V reassured him, his voice soft and comforting. “Christmas is a holiday on Earth. Humans celebrate it around the end of the year. It’s all about giving, spreading cheer, and celebrating togetherness.” He paused, then added with a quiet chuckle, “I guess it’s a little… sappy, in a way. But it’s a nice holiday.”
Saeran, still flustered, nodded, though the whole concept still felt out of reach. He’d never known anything like that—nothing about warmth or cheer. He’d only known the cold, harsh reality of Hell and the pain of the past.
“Well,” Saeran muttered, trying to shift the subject, “I guess we can celebrate Sinsmas, then.”
V’s eyes lit up at the acceptance, his smile wide and encouraging. “That’s the spirit! And don’t worry, it’s not really about what you remember or don’t remember. It’s more about embracing where we come from, and celebrating who we are. The sins, the mistakes, the lessons…” He paused, adding with a wink, “The good stuff, the bad stuff, all of it.”
Saeran nodded slowly, still not entirely sure what he was signing up for but willing to trust V. “Yeah… okay. I’ll try.”
V clapped his hands, an excited gleam in his eyes. “Great! We’ll do it all. Seven deadly sins, seven days of celebration. I was thinking we could start by celebrating all the sins together, and then focus on each one. We’ll have a little bit of everything: gluttony, greed, sloth—just to name a few.” He began to hum cheerfully, continuing his task of hanging more decorations.
Saeran, though unsure, found himself nodding along. He wasn’t sure if the concept of sins was something to be celebrated, but there was something undeniably comforting in V’s enthusiasm. “Sure,” he said, giving a small, uncertain smile. “Let’s do it.”
V beamed at him, a soft but profound pride in his eyes. “That’s the spirit! You know, it’s about celebrating who we are, not who we should be. It’s a reminder that even in Hell, we have a place—together.”
The fire crackled in the background as V continued setting up, clearly enjoying the process. Saeran, sitting quietly, couldn’t help but feel an unfamiliar warmth spreading through him. Maybe this holiday would be strange, maybe it would be uncomfortable, but he couldn’t deny the comfort in it—the idea that even in Hell, there could be something close to celebration.
As V hummed a jolly tune while pulling out treats and setting the table, Saeran realized something. He hadn’t thought much of Sinsmas, not until now, but the thought of celebrating it with V—of sharing this moment—felt strangely right. It wasn’t just about celebrating the sins. It was about celebrating their bond, the fact that they’d somehow made it this far, despite everything.
As V finished setting the final decorations, he turned to Saeran with a grin. “Alright, all set! Let’s dig in.”
Saeran looked at the spread before them: piles of sweet treats, glimmering candles, and decorations symbolizing the sins. The room, despite being in the heart of Hell, felt alive with warmth.
“Happy Sinsmas, Saeran,” V said, his voice genuine and full of joy.
Saeran looked up, his expression softening. “Happy… Sinsmas,” he echoed, unsure but smiling. He couldn’t bring himself to fully understand it yet, but something in V’s presence made the whole thing seem worth celebrating.
They had just finished eating the delicious spread V had prepared, a feast meant to celebrate the sins in their own peculiar way, and the sense of camaraderie between them felt almost tangible, like a secret bond only they shared.
V, with his usual calm demeanor, was fussing with a string of twinkling lights, trying to get them just right. The air was thick with contentment, the kind of contentment Saeran had never known before—a peaceful, almost familial atmosphere that was somehow both strange and familiar. He hadn’t expected to feel this way. Sinsmas was supposed to be strange, something they were only celebrating out of tradition, but something about it felt… good.
Without thinking, Saeran shifted in his seat, his eyes following V’s movements with an odd softness in them.
“Hey, uh, Dad,” Saeran muttered absentmindedly, more to himself than to anyone else. “You missed a spot up there.”
The moment the word left his lips, he froze.
A thick, sudden silence fell over the room. The air felt heavier than it had moments ago, as if the world had paused, waiting for something. Saeran’s heart skipped a beat, his eyes wide as he stared at V.
He blinked rapidly, his face flooding with warmth as his brain scrambled to make sense of what had just slipped out. His hands went clammy, and the realization hit him all at once.
“Wait,” Saeran stammered, quickly standing up from the chair, his voice flustered and apologetic. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I didn’t mean it like that. I just—”
V, calm as ever, turned to face Saeran, his expression unchanged. His lips curved into a faint, serene smile, his eyes softening with something unspoken. There was no judgment in his gaze, no reaction beyond the quiet understanding that seemed to radiate from him.
“I understand,” V said quietly, his voice warm, reassuring.
The words hit Saeran like a soft breeze, unexpected and yet comforting. He didn’t know why, but the fact that V wasn’t making a big deal out of it—wasn’t laughing or scolding him—left a lump in Saeran’s throat. His face flushed even deeper, a thousand thoughts racing in his head.
“I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean—” Saeran began again, but V interrupted him with a calm wave of his hand.
“Saeran,” V said, his tone steady and comforting. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I know what you meant.”
The reassurance in V’s voice, the lack of judgment, made Saeran’s nerves settle, though his face was still burning. He wasn’t sure why it had come out like that, but it felt right, in some strange, unexplainable way. He had called V “Dad,” and despite the awkwardness, it had felt like a slip of the tongue that came from a place he couldn’t quite articulate. A place of trust. A place of comfort.
Saeran shifted awkwardly, avoiding V’s gaze as he muttered, “It’s just… I don’t really know why I said that.”
V smiled, a glimmer of something in his eyes, something that spoke volumes without needing words. He took a step toward Saeran, his voice still gentle but filled with an undeniable warmth. “It’s alright. I understand, Saeran. You’re not alone here.”
Saeran’s throat tightened, the warmth in V’s voice making him feel something he wasn’t quite ready to face. The idea that he could call V Dad, that V would accept it so easily… it felt like a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying was being lifted off his shoulders.
He took a deep breath, his blush fading into a softer warmth, though he still felt embarrassed. “Thanks,” he muttered, unsure of how else to express what he was feeling.
V gave a quiet chuckle, a sound that felt both calming and reassuring. “You’re welcome, Saeran.”
And with that, the moment seemed to pass, but the bond between them lingered in the air, like a soft thread that tied them together in ways neither of them could fully put into words. Saeran wasn’t sure if he was ready to label what he felt, or what he had just done, but for once, he didn’t need to. In that moment, under the glow of the Sinsmas lights, he simply allowed himself to feel it.
“ He didn’t correct me” Saeran thought
