⋆𐙚 ̊.hey, nana.𐙚⋆ @paintedbynortonstears - Tumblr Blog

how the process of sinking begun.

Finsen Hunter x fem!reader. Chapter 1.

important: read the masterlist. very important! + english is not my mother tongue. I first write in Romanian then I translate it with my own knowledge and skills, sometimes I use google translate and a dex that I have for synonyms. If you spot any mistakes, politely let me know!

summary for this chapter: before any nightmare, there is a chain of causes that leads to such horrific result. as you obsessively focus on your inner great hazard, you have to go back to your earliest of memories that you share with him. This chapter is a much needed introduction. The first two chapters are more of a context building for the real deal, I’m actually dissatisfied with this one. It feels rushed:(. This chapter focuses on y/n’s perspective more. Remember that all the characters are flawed including y/n.

warnings for this chapter: bullying, mention of cheating but nothing big, blood, death, loss and grief. This fic might not be for you.

-> used (with permission) some information that i’ve got from @angel-cadaver-222 posts. especially in describing finsen’s physical appearance. She did it so beautifully, I just had to. Also, hope I got Finsen right haha, in case you are going to read (as I mentioned in the masterlist, this fic might not be everyone’s cup of tea).

-> don’t use ai to create bots for this fic.

-> do not repost, only reblogs are accepted.

Sometimes, for the sake of being social creatures, we tend to express certain words out of pure kindness that, most unfortunately, end up regretting later. The power of one word shall never be left underestimated.

“So what if you have insensitivity to pain? What’s exactly so utterly wrong about that?”

No matter how much you believed in those words.

“I don’t see anything monstrous in you.”

No matter how inoffensive they might seem.

“Quite the contrary, you are nothing but simply admirable.”

Silence is a key to a selective door. A door that you had no clue you could ever access. Just because you really wanted to open that one. And it would have been better if you kept your mouth shut that day. Lips sealed like your mother thought you to. Maybe, ironically, she knew that the taste of the swamp is far from pleasant.

Everything started on the surface. The sunny summer days weren't intimidating enough to convince you to retreat to the shade. After all, you were a child back then, and children don't stop to consider how easily one might suffer sunstroke in the heat of a July afternoon. The garden was filled with youthful souls not much older or younger than you, your friend's birthday party had an impressive rich guest list. Some played, others preferred to sit at the table just as their parents had raised them. Being reserved is often a virtue. There is no greater sin in high society than daring to display your enthusiasm and emotions like a crazed commoner. For all these lessons your mother recited with unceasing exasperation, you were never part of the group at the table. No matter how much she used to insist and complain. You could explode in a tantrum just by hearing one more remark about how delightful the tea and the decor were.

Your fiancé, from a large business family similar to yours, never bothered to get up from his chair. Great manners. Calculated remarks that impressed all his teachers. It is common sense for a young boy from a business family to be engaged to a young girl from a family of his caliber. An effective strategy in gaining abundance and also, an unhappy marriage. You never liked Edgar. You wanted to remain childish and make the most out of the blessings that came with the young days, while he considered your joys to be mere wastes of time. You never knew what he liked. You didn't even thought about asking him, he was constantly tiring your ears with speeches about what awaits you once you become adults. Responsibility. Honor. Work. Ambition. These are not exactly the topics you necessarily favoured to debate first thing in the morning, unlike him.

The guests were diverse. Your dear friend, Daphne, had a special pair of parents. Her mother, despite her pompous noble title, decided to marry a simple family doctor. So not all the guests came from the highest of the ranks. The miracle of getting to Daphne's birthday party with the other rich families was due to the huge mansion that her mother still owned. With glorious architecture and gardens upon gardens, as vast as they can be. How could you remain at the table with such a large plot of land at your disposal, ready to be explored? Plus, it was one opportunity for you to socialize with more children, you weren't exactly allowed to leave the protection of your home and play to your heart's content.

That's when you met him. Finsen Hunter. The child of a dentist. His father had a tight friendship with Daphne's father. It was a coincidence that you ended up playing near him. It was also a coincidence that your curiosity drew you to the small group boys that surrounded a very fragile one. You disliked boys your age and you often steered from them. So, like I said, it was a coincidence. Even though in the present you might disagree, taking in consideration the possibility of something bigger that led you to approach the group. But for the sake of it, let’s all agree it was mere curiosity. And that curiosity of yours made you notice the nail, the stab wounds on his arm and the great tension. Even an infant would have noticed the distress on his face. The fear. The humiliation caused by being cornered and the desolated tribulation of having nobody by your side while humans display their capacity in choosing evil over good. And of course you just had to interfere. You heard your mother's words, in your head, constantly warning you to mind your own business, that you were in no position to play the hero and be intrusive. That’s improper. Improper actions are always followed by trouble that a young lady shall never participate in. But you wouldn't be her daughter anymore if you didn't constantly caused her displeasures. Hasty you were when you pilfered that nail. You weren’t necessarily intimidating, but your family status sure was.

“What’s so funny?” You raised your voice at the perpetrator. “Should I stab you now so you can feel what it’s like?”

But the boy in front of you just started laughing. “That wouldn’t be the same. Finsen is weird. He’s not capable of feeling pain. In theory, I can’t hurt him, right?” The other boys were grotesquely snickering too, covering their mouths in such a way that it reminded you of a painting that you saw once. A filthy painting that displayed the ugliness that could taint even the smiles of small children. Those eyes were hollow and teeth can morph into fangs. How badly that enraged you. You’ve never, in your life, heard of anything like that before. But somehow, it didn’t catch you by surprise. An author once criticised the way people contemplate on the ‘bestial’ cruelty of a man. How that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully so artistically cruel (Fyodor Dostoyevski in The Brothers Karamazov — I LOVE MY MAN DOSTO). Another author said something interesting regarding nature. Imagine a being like nature, wasteful beyond measure, indifferent beyond measure, without purposes and consideration, without pity and justice, simultaneously fruitful, desolate, and unknown — imagine this indifference itself as a power — how could you live in accordance with this indifference? We like to be out in nature so much because it has no opinion on us (Friedrich Nietzsche in Beyond Good and Evil). Maybe you wonder why I’m spilling bollocks to you but all this rubbish has a reason. I agree with both authors, nature is indifferent. Indifference, as the definition of the word suggests it, the terms of good and evil are entirely left out. There is no good, evil, kindness, envy or anything similar in nature. They don’t exist. They are terms specifically made for us, humans. We invented them. Science will tell you that the cause is our brain. Humans are social creatures and it is scientifically proven that we cannot survive without socialising. So we invented the black and white in order to coexist peacefully without killing each other, by labeling each human social conduct by these fabricated concepts of good and bad. Yes you can, no you can’t. Laws are written over this label too. As I just mentioned, if we didn’t, we would have continued to kill each other. And killing is very merciful compared to many acts that we are capable of if we never invented those antithesis terms. On the other hand, religion, in a somehow half-similar manner, tells us that it’s because we have a soul. And once a soul turns brutal, it’s a ‘spiritual failure’ in the eyes of God that, of course, will later punish you. Humans are the only ones that will face judgement once they die. Please, do notice how animals or plants can’t have such decline of spirit. I’m not saying animals are not social and they don’t have rules themselves, they very much do indeed. I’m saying that animals don’t harm knowing that it’s bad, evil or malicious. Animals don’t kill for passion or for an ideology that they have. We do. And we are creative and we often like to be artistic about it too. To find meaning in your evilness, that’s something only a human can do. To justify it. Don’t you agree? Is something scarier than a creature that discerns between good and evil and it picks the last one? A fully conscious decision to indulge in provoking pain towards something? A creature that is a mix of animalistic instinct and choice. But coming back to the action in this fic, of course, you were a kid and this entire monologue doesn’t represent your thoughts back then. You chose the good. So without caring about their motive, you just started pocking the group with the nail until they backed away screaming. Doing the right thing because, it felt right.

“You are nothing but admirable.” You accepted in a very natural way that his body didn’t feel pain. You weren't fascinated, you felt no need to see for yourself if a certain level of pain could make him tear up from physical agony. You even felt no need in asking him more questions about it. You only visualised it as a proof of rare strength. Which you thought that’s perfectly reflecting who he is.

“I’m afraid it’s not. I’m often tormented by others because of it.” He declared under that big tree that kept you both hidden from the sun that became even more unbearable.

“They strive to get to you. They’re obviously jealous. Most of them end up weeping if they rub their knees a little, but you are immune to crying. You only have reasons to laugh.” You really meant that. And how you should regret it now. Those innocent moments were nothing but utterly regrettable.

“But everyone my age calls me a freak all the time.” He countered. He didn’t hesitate to pronounce ‘freak’. As if he’d heard it so many times already, he was no longer embarrassed to state it out loud. He had a very melancholic face for that age. In most cases, children are ignorant and you couldn’t decipher how lonely he must have felt. How isolated.

“It's their heartless way of saying you're strong and they're weak.” He slightly tilted his head. It was clear that he never heard that one before.

You made a bold move under that tree. You took the nail and stabbed yourself as hard as you could in your left arm. Empathise on as hard as you could. Because that wound was no match compared to his. You winced in pain and dropped the nail from your hand, the grass got wet with a few drops of blood, tarnishing its green. It terrified you how your own flesh bends and tears from such a small object, how it gets numb after a few seconds. Meanwhile Finsen didn't move. In fact, he had no reaction. He was confused as to why you did that. Finsen always had a very neutral and cold way of looking at fresh wounds. But when you started to explain to him how everyone would react like that, even an adult, and how he should hold his head up high because nothing could hurt him… he finally smiled. A baby tooth in the middle was missing. That's when you learnt that no matter how somber he looked, he could smile the most beautifully. That's exactly when you fell in love with him.

The following sentiments are present in here and known to you because he allowed it. Indeed, he felt helplessly lonely until that birthday party. Until he met you. You made each experience easier. What a remarkable day, where both of you ran after each other in that huge garden, filled to the brim with gorgeous and about to bloom flowers. But he, sadly, had to leave to go back to Scotland. For three summers you waited eagerly for Daphne’s birthday’s arrival. For his arrival. To see him again. And in a way so he did. It’s a complete cliche but you were a breath of fresh air, a summer escape from the treatment he got used to receive. A friend. Something precious. That he could call it his and it’s not something up to sale. We take for granted the privilege of saying ‘my friend’. He never took you for granted. Quite the contrary, you were very dear to him. Anywhere you appeared he was no longer in an era of hostilities. He was no longer a freak. He was strong and normal and most importantly a kid. The best summers of his life. He said he still feels grateful. You don’t particularly agree with his confession. It’s hard to now.

Finsen never showed much dolor outside of that gloomy visage of his that he had from time to time, so you never truly worried for him at first. You really thought that incident was a one time thing. Summer days were your favourite, making the most out of the two and a half weeks you had. You once offered to show him the town. It was absolutely hilarious how you both got lost so many times because you weren’t really allowed outside and you knew as little as him. And getting grounded by your parents for sneaking never felt more worth it. Nothing, in this world, compared to the feeling of running alongside him, holding hands. Every time one of you happened to fall, you've made a habit of blowing on the other's wound. Even though Finsen wasn't perturbed by any bruises (most of the times you had to point them out if he got one). You insisted. You exchanged correspondence and while he was in Scotland you begun writing to each other until summer arrived again, in secret. At least in your case it was a secret (your mother would have gone mad). Now that you think about it, he never really elaborated anything about his life at that time. He always sent letters to react to your silly stories and never once did it cross your mind to ask him if he still gets bullied at school. You figured, since you thought him how to play properly, he must have already made some friends. You were too precious and innocent, you really thought that everyone adored him just as the way you did. How small is the reality of one kid. You knew nothing about bullying in those tender moments of your ephemeral life. He would only describe how much time he spends on his studies, how he wanted to become a dentist, just like his father. You thought nothing of it, of those lack of details about his time at school, friends, playtime.

Speaking of it, one summer playtime was over. So was your childhood.

“There you are. When are you intending to learn how to display any form of mannerism and properly greet your guests for once?” Edgar, your fiancé said on that dark day with such a revolted tone for a kid older by one year than you.

“You visit me so often just to scold me. I don’t intend to greet you anytime sooner.” Always so petty, you only softened around a certain someone. “You can speak to my father, I’m leaving to play with Finsen.”

“I don’t care who Finsen is.” Edgar always scrunched his nose up when he was displeased by you. He was an unusual one. At least in your view. You disliked how his green eyes would stare at you with arrogance, the ‘I know better’ look and the way his light blonde hair was always neatly styled as if he’s an adult. “My mother made an important arrangement for both of us to be thought essential and elevated table etiquette by a highly respected teacher from London. I know you have a thick-head, but I expect from you that you to take our future seriously and— wait!” He ended up running after you sprinted outside and you were laughing for being much faster and agile. Playfully reminding Edgar that he too is a child and he is sometimes unable in defeating your stubbornness.

You had absolutely no idea how that day would mark the last summer you would see Finsen. He was, once again, surrounded by a large group. This time, in addition to the group of Daphne’s birthday guests who happened to venture down the same alley where you and Finsen had created your special meeting place, there were a few teenagers. Tall figures, an intimidating presence compared to your size, truly unsettling. You didn’t hear him wail but you did hear their bemusement and also the remarks regarding his condition. Enough for you to finally understand the great difference between your correspondence. Why did things only change in your head? Some people say that when a person is being harassed, they are considered objects in their aggressors eyes. But I disagree. If there is a difference between an object and a living being, is that after somebody messes with an object, that object is left alone. That’s when it’s a one time thing. But if it’s alive, not an object, it just doesn’t stop. There is always something new, someone new wanting to join the sadistic fun, new ways in messing with one slightly different individual. Why is that? The answer lays in the most deprived constitution that we all possess. Dominance. You cannot overpower an object. You just simply can’t. It lacks vitality. It lacks reaction. It lacks thinking and as an obvious matter of fact, an object is not a threat in the slightest. And that reaction is the reward for human hunger. Dominance can manifest in different rewards through the circuit of reaction: satisfaction, pride, validation of one’s standing and superiority, sometimes a love confession or a hate declaration. As for the reason, the most frightening fact is that it does not require one. This constitution is implemented in all of us and from what we all’ve seen, we cannot eliminate it, just a frail minimisation at best. As creatures of communication, we were made to stick together and to destroy each other. Finsen got treated more horribly than an object.

He spotted you straightaway. Was he hoping you could save him that time too? You wanted to. You were ardently determined to. But when one of the teenagers pulled out a pocket knife, Edgar, who had caught up to you, grabbed your arm and yanked you back in an instant. “Don’t get yourself involved, you fool.” You really tried to struggle but Edgar was surprisingly firm. “You are gonna taint both of our honours. You must and you will not go there.” You hated how Finsen watched all of it, you never wanted him to see how weak you were compared to your fiancé. How helpless. Maybe more helpless than him. How easily was for Edgar to drag you after him despite all your efforts to run in the opposing direction. You always resolved to exude yourself as strong when you were with Finsen. Maybe you were afraid of disappointing him by leaving him there, to be tormented. You never knew if he felt just that while he stared at the way you faded from the alley. Perhaps you were his small gleam of hope. Did your gleam vanish in his eyes that day? He never but never told you, no matter how much you pounded. You were an open book because your life was filled with shenanigans, happiness and peace. But when one has no peace, it’s hard to make a breach. Even the smallest of cracks are hard to create. Maybe that’s why he never told you about the continuous bullying. Maybe that’s why he never told you about a single thing that lays on top of his tiny heart. You were the yapper and he was the listener. He liked keeping you on the surface.

Edgar is not merciless. He ran to the closest local policemen that were patrolling that day. All you remember is that you were taken home against your will. Edgar was generous enough to announce you that ‘your friend’ is safe and sound and those delinquents could be suffering consequences for their “unsophisticated “ actions as he would describe. You insisted on getting more details and you knew Edgar knew. He had his way to speak to adults, you hated that he was intelligent and too clever for his age. And he was smart to not tell you about the injuries Finsen received so you could get some sleep at night. And you did. You had that small belief, a very fragile one, that you will see Finsen tomorrow and nothing in this world would change that. But he didn’t showed up at Daphne’s birthday. His bullies sure did. By the way they played it was clear no consequences occurred. They had no sense of remorse so you became what you disdained — the kid sitting quietly at the table. Your mother was nothing but pleased about it. That’s the moment when your childhood completely ended.

Your correspondence with Finsen lessened. Some of his replies were clearly out of politeness. You could feel the way his wall was up again and you wanted to demolish it completely by sending multiple letters where you apologised, explained yourself, put the blame on Edgar because that was the easiest thing to do. Not like you ever conquered that wall to begin with. Some seasons it seemed as if things got back to normal, his replies were consistent. Some times you waited months for one delayed reply. You stopped sending him any letters. He stopped attending Daphne’s birthday and going back to England in the summer. But he was still on your mind. From time to time. Especially when you witnessed how your older brother would gaze at Daphne, refusing to admit in having quite the crush on her. Three years full of letters and three summers where you made many lasting recollections. Cast aside, just like that.

With time, guilt towards that day minimised. It was profoundly exhausting to think about ‘what ifs’ all the damn time. In your teenage years, Finsen renewed his correspondence with you. Wishing you happy holidays, happy birthdays or congratulations on debuting. His letters were on point, a great deal of time his words ruminated in your interpretation as a wounding lack of emotions behind them. You wondered why he troubled himself so much. So you decided to not rejoin. He’s never setting foot in England again after all. Finsen never said that but you drew that conclusion by yourself in the ardor of your feelings. In fact, at some point, you were so confused about your amity that you made the impulsive decision to write him a long letter one year before your marriage with Edgar. As you barely crossed the threshold into adulthood. You offered one more apology but you accused him of toying with you, that he sends those letters and expresses his words in such a way that any gentleman and lady would make the correct guess about how much he despises you for that incident. You feel embarrassed about writing that one now. The worst thing? He didn’t reply. For seven months. But you did, finally, received one letter. Finsen was quite descriptive in that one. About his studies, interests in the medical field, theories he had, aspirations and so much that you couldn’t believe it. You felt that after long and difficult years, you finally managed to gain some insight. That he took a step forward. And you are no longer that naive child enclosed within a small pink world. He ended the letter with one sentence: The sentiment I bear toward you is the very opposite of hatred. My most cherished companion, the one nearest to my heart. My feelings for you could never be mistaken for that by anyone, not even by the most misjudged of them.

That’s when he lured you, once again, a step closer towards the bottomless swamp.

In a very ordinary and suffocating day of early October, your marriage to Edgar was approaching its nine-year anniversary. It was by no means a disastrous marriage. Not quite the villain you had imagined upon your first meeting. A tolerable arrangement filled with dull moments and silence. A particular bond of quiet contentment rather than passion. Truly, your opinion about him was harsher than the factual reality, he’s a better man than you had first given him credit for. He’s an astonishing responsible one too, despite his criticising spirit, he is untiring in his efforts to make you the most comfortable. Your husband never dared to touch you. It was foreign to his nature to force himself upon a woman, even if at the beginning of your marriage he kept on delivering his signature lengthy speeches about your shared duty to continue the line of your families. He gave up on the idea long ago. And you insisted on the reasonable solution that he is allowed to see women secretly if he needed to. It was just an arrangement after all. You weren’t going to demand complete loyalty and also negligence to his own perfectly natural needs. And you were never going to lay with him. Each time you entertained the idea, your body recoiled in disapproval.

Edgar had ascended himself to the so desired pinnacle of high society and prosperity in business. Filthy rich, annoyingly smart and handsome. A gentlemen of tall stature, with a fine-looking masculine facial structure but still marvellously elegant. You have always been notably jealous of his generous eyelashes that adorned his eyes. A considerable amount of women were hypnotised by his lips, by his body shape, attracted to the very idea of seeing him more revealed from his clothes. He dressed so properly that not even his neck was ever that visible. Many of young and unattached yet ladies indulged themselves in a so disgraceful fantasy — to unfasten those damned buttons and delight their ache to glimpse the form hidden beneath its many layers. You were never curious to explore your husband’s esteemed charm but one specific widow sure was eyeing your much sought man. An accident claimed her husband in a devastating tragic way, but her youthfulness and striking beauty were spared from grief. You never shared even the simplest care to remember her name. Everyone called her The Widow nevertheless. She was admired and envied by many. Never failing to be the belle of the season. And she, after months of giving Edgar enough signs of her interest, became the only one to discover what it was like to be stripped of her clothes by his so rushed hands. She transformed into a lavished feast and let’s just kindly assume that Edgar left all his mannerisms outside the bedroom once he got a taste of the fervour that burned and waited between her full of plumpness legs. Naturally, you never payed any mind when it came to Edgar’s feelings towards her. But you kept your constant attention on receiving news from someone else.

You carried on communicating even after the wedding, even after you purposely didn't invite him. He told you he didn’t take it to heart. But the simple congratulation and wishes to have a long lasting marriage was stripped from any genuineness you assumed. Surprisingly, your correspondence remained consistent, with its highs and lows. You still felt like he deliberately withheld details but his soft and graceful fashion in writing his longing to see you again always won against your worrying impressions. And the feared attachment grew. The pain too. Let’s not forget about frustration. You wondered what the years had made of him, in what shape of grown adult time had crafted him into. Curiosity left you with no chances at getting any sleep many but so many nights. Each time he generously described how he befriended a colleague or made a new acquaintance in his field, you couldn’t help yourself but feel a pang of shameful envy corrupting your very heart. They had the wonderful opportunity and privilege to enjoy his company in flesh, to witness the creation of maturity, of simply being with him while you are kept on arm’s length. Admitting those less-than-flattering feelings to him proved to be embarrassingly difficult. You attempted to. But those attempts ended up burned in the fire. Sometimes it felt like you are more than satisfied with lilliputian bread crumbs and empty promises disguised as words of sincerity. Deep down you knew that he forbids any access to his world when it came to you. He has this elevated way of avoiding your too curious questions or the daring hints to finally stand facing each other. You accepted his cruelty rather well. There is a benefit about being incapable in picturing his aspect. That did help you greatly. You allowed yourself to remain just pen-pals despite your wondering mind. It was not that torturous anyway. You had an impression that those letters are more intimate than any physical form. Draining your head of thoughts that you could never open to others and him responding with interest and sharing his insides to you too. Happiness was in the shape of a paper and boredom vanished ashamed like a puff.

So imagine your delight when you heard he is back in town after years. He was invited to Daphne’s engagement party.

Nobody knew who Daphne got engaged to, it was quite a hot mystery. She kept the secret so she could host another grand party at her mansion. Anything to keep the traditions of her declined family after her mom got locked up in that asylum. You prepared yourself so diligently, taking each detail in consideration — it almost scared your rigid husband. You arrived before the party even had the chance to start. The friendship with Daphne was one of a wonderful kind. You ended up volunteering as a public school teacher to cease the tedium away. So did Daphne, but as a paid one since money were slowly cut short in her account. (Her father never earned enough). That’s when the friendship fortified, ironically, once you started working and experiencing stress together. You were both very dedicated and you loved all the kids. Unlike Daphne, you had one favourite thought. Arabella. The daughter of a miner. Most regrettably, her mother slowly passed away in Sacred Heart Hospital while struggling to give birth, the baby didn’t prevailed either. But Arabella’s sweetness and gentleness saved her father and made you fond of her immensely. She reminded you of Daphne in a way. Long and dark brown locks, eyes like the brine in the mist of a squall, the softest features. One would say they must be blood related. Because Daphne is also nothing but sweet and gentle. Truly remarkable. You felt bad everytime society punished her for her mother’s heated decision to marry a common doctor and eventually losing her mind. Unfortunately, she had a hard time finding a suitor. The first obstacle was her mother’s choice to abandon a luxurious promised future to be with her father. The second one was the clear financial problems that raised within keeping such a spectacular mansion. The third were the ridiculous debts her father had to resort to. Her mother slowly losing mental faculties, causing hysterical and violent scenes publicly and as I mentioned in the beginning, there is no bigger sin than that in high society. There were numerous nasty rumours about Daphne becoming a mere mistress to pay those debts if things continued like that. So you were very enthusiastic to finally meet the lucky gentleman that got himself tied with your dearest friend.

“Would it be such a shame if I find out before anyone else?” You always continuously begged for her to reveal it. Your skin was aching to find out. “Daphne, I beg of you, I will want nothing more than to find out before your insufferable aunts do. I will rub it on their faces once the announcement is done.” Daphne laughed as if she’s cornered by your insistence, a worrying anxious look settled over her face as she finally resolved to tell you.

“Pleaseeee, don’t deprive your friend of such information. It’s in the friendship mandatory rule-book that I must know before anyone else does.”

“I was afraid of how you would react.” That’s when everything went down.

“But, uhm… .” She continued with caution and you tilted your head with a bewildered smile, eyebrows arched in confusion. “It’s Finsen.” She allowed a deep exhale escape her lips and your smile pathetically vanished just to be replaced by a clear-as-day forced one. If there is one thing you had never dared to confess to your Daphne, it was the affection you carefully harboured for Finsen. Don’t get me wrong dearest reader, you always made sure to let her know you and Finsen kept your friendship over the years by recounting to her your correspondence with him. Clearly leaving out specific details. Perhaps she knew about your possessiveness. Perhaps there was no need to put your possessiveness into words. In the mists of one wrong moment, even the sweetest of things can start tasting bitter too.

“You are engaged to Finsen for months? How?” Your brain failed to properly process the information and Daphne just chuckled nervously one more time.

“Well, you are more than aware that our fathers are close friends… just like we are.” That stung you deeply giving the shocking context. “Finsen was kind enough to ask for my hand to save me from the shame of not finding a suitor.” She tried her very best to hide her gulp. “I was pressured to accept. Please understand that otherwise I would have r… .” You are unable to recall what she tried to explain after that, only small fragments, something between the lines of her financial and reputation need to accept the proposal. The more you struggled in listening to her panicked rambling, a stubborn thought pleaded to you to realise something simply doesn’t add up. So you interrupted her rather rudely.

“He asked for your hand, personally?”

“Yes.”

“Months ago?”

“Yes.”

“How? He is currently in Scotland, is he not? Did he visit England that unannounced just for you? Are you about to move to Scotland’s lands for this?”

“Quite the contrary. He moved to our land years ago for his studies. He even managed to flawlessly attend the prestigious Oxford in London.” Daphne became as confused as you. “Didn’t he notified you of such a thing in his letters?”

“Years… ?” Your eyes widened comically and Daphne nodded. He described to you how demanding his academics were, without a fail he successfully dodged your interrogations about the exact place he attended.

“Well, he is not exactly the bragging one. He usually talks about anything else rather than his accomplishments. He has this slyness in him to make your mind venture far away from the waiting answer for a simple and plain intrigue. But his father did tell mine about his merits and venerated education. He is quite successful and deeply appreciated in his line of work. He might just be the next big thing.” Daphne felt noticeably awkward and you tried to appear at least not that devastated by the news. You never saw such splintering possibility coming. Somehow, in some sort of delusion you created with your own two hands and devotion, you could had never picture Finsen with another. You had that feeling that both of you belonged to each other. As if you were stuck. Not in a romantic way since your last image of him at that time was a mere child’s figure, but in a soul tied one. Two souls, stuck together, staying together. An exaggeration shattered by the inevitable character of reality. After all, you are married and Daphne is finally engaged. With Finsen. Finsen, engaged to your best friend.

“Congratulations! I hope he takes very but very good care of you.” You hugged her but your heart didn’t beat out of complete honest joy anymore. Looking back now, you wished you hugged Daphne tighter in October.

You tried to resonate with yourself that evening. It was an atrocious task to do. Realistically, you haven’t seen each other for god forsaken years. Letters are often shallow and interpretable. Loneliness can be deceiving. One thought crossed your mind. That you unintentionally turned him into a refuge place from your unwanted marriage and life as a general concept. An inner paradise you could retreat to, tied to some stupid childhood crush that you made it feel like it was still valid. It would be also stupid to point your finger at any of them in betrayal. Because on that very hand that you point with, there is your wedding ring that is burning into your skin as a sickening reminder that your right to feel and express is not allowed. Maybe you never grew up. Just like Edgar would sometimes say when you are unnecessarily frustrating to deal with. You had a very unique talent in complicating things and messing your life that most people would kill for. What exactly made you so ungrateful? Chasing after flies that you pictured as birds.

After a few drinks and not-so-subtly guarding the door like some kind of dog, you, once again, tried to accommodate with a logical resolution. The resolution was simple. That you don’t know shit. The most probable scenario is that when he finally makes his damn appearance after being fashionably late, you are going to feel nothing about it. Just like a wooden sword that is perceived so high and mighty for most kids but they all grow out of it eventually. Your imagination is the sole creator of his divinity in presence inside your small heaven of mind. So you successfully relaxed yourself, laughing with Daphne. You even allowed yourself to be entertained by multiple guests with their adventures and comical situations. Rich people humour that you usually detested became hilarious. You were brilliant in socialising once you decided to put some lessons to practice. But brilliancy is often temporary.

How did you recognised him so quickly?

Your eyes found him with no fail. He spared no bother to tame that hair of his. Those brown and mesmerising curls even in disarray that you could twirl between your very fingers spoke to you like faes from tales. His pale complexion accentuated his evident shadows beneath his eyes — absolutely eerily enchanting. His big angular nose was always beautiful to behold, so unmistakably his. A much slender figure than you anticipated but also effortlessly alluring. He looked spectacular in a suit. It was plain and it looked like he picked the first one at his disposal but you felt immersed. Your small heaven that you dreamed about was materialised and palpable, a few metres ahead.

Daphne greeted him at once. A painfully familiar faint smile graced the shape of his lips, you witnessed the way his marked chin made movements in order to speak softly to her. That gave birth to a singularity within you, all your pessimistic thoughts moulded each other in one. Perhaps you are not special, your belief of being the only object of his gentleness is futile in front of this scene unfolding. You had an acutely observant spirit when it came down to him. Whether it was microscopic shifts beneath his skin or the subtlety of his muscles flexing, you had a worrying skill in catching the smallest of his reactions that escaped everyone’s notice. Nothing transcended into a new direction. Actually, no. Gentle reader, I ask for your mercy and permission to correct myself of this error. Something did change. The feelings you held for years grew platonic, only companionable and quite possessive (as I mentioned) with the passing of time. But if one thing changed, it was the core of the all. Into the most shameful and sinful desire. Like a flame that remained little in order to be sheltered from the harsh winds of unseen eyes but it exploded into stars and spark once there was no need for any. You lingered longer than the standard of acceptance on the way his lips sealed her hand with a kiss, envious that her delicate gloved skin had been graced by their attention. That silky texture that witnessed, closely, the endearing fat under his lips that gave the impression as if he were forever on the verge of a pout. You got unwanted goosebumps once his eyes finally met yours. It’s been a while. But your heart started beating even faster when you noticed how his soulful brown eyes (i hope they are brown, couldn’t exactly tell from his trail. It would be awkward if I messed it up wiajqjhaj) gazed so lovingly upon yours. Mute were the compliments for his woeful aspect, it burned your bones with nothing but adoration. Like a knife that never stopped twisting and turning in your spirit’s essence, it’s liquid evermore spilling with no intention to stop but infinite in its source. Finsen still had his way to tear up your being, to open wounds formed from years of yearning. You truly are greedy and undoable. Not once did you met since the incident and you already wished to take and have him for yourself, like the ungrateful creature that you were. Never once considering that this greed towards him could ever drown you. You always underestimated the depths of the water and his true existence.

And nothing made you bleed more like a simple greeting.

“Y/n.” He mastered Queen’s English admirably, but his Scottish accent is still present and you are relieved to hear it. He also kept his clumsy manner of speaking but perhaps that was caused by the staring contest you started.

“Finsen.” You replied and for the sake of courtesy, you reciprocated the small bow despite the anger circulating in your blood so boldly. “Congratulations on your achievements. Daphne told me about how your aspirations finally fructified. Surely your father is very pleased of you, of the man you became.” Acting normal wasn’t exactly your strongest qualification but politeness sure covered a few gaps for you. After all, you learnt from the best.

“Well, I sincerely thank you for your compliments. I was also hoping that my father is not the only one sharing the feeling of pride about my career. I held my head high just like you advised me.” His tone got raspier with his adulthood. But not in a hey kitten kind of way. Perhaps tiredness, perhaps his vocal cords accommodated with his endless sorrow presence or perhaps something else.

“You needn’t concern yourself with me. You know I always… supported you. From afar… of course. Always from afar.” He seemed poisoned in responding to your sudden snappiness, maybe to question your change in attitude but you cut him off before your conversation wandered into a huge and unpleasant inconvenience. “You should go greet the others. I heard some distinguished doctors are in attendance and more than eager to chat with you.” You switched back to your cheerful demeanour and he just awkwardly nodded before taking his departure. His immediate compliance felt disappointing. Relieving also, but deplorably disappointing.

The official announcement tasted like three champagne glasses and an earned lifted eyebrow from Edgar. You clapped when the others clapped, not one second earlier or longer than them. Once your glass emptied, just as fast you grabbed another one filled with extravagancy that tasted poignant. Not virulent as of yet. If one thing could fill the idiotic whole that enveloped with its claws your body, it was definitely alcohol. And drinking in vain you did. Being an adult is absolutely bloody wonderful. You don’t even remember why you stayed for so long. You preoccupied yourself to avoid him like a phantom. A phantom unceasingly present in the corners, even if he dared to stare closer you tried to play the fool and let him be, not because you want this phantom to mourn as you do, you are just deeply frightened by them. Edgar left you there, probably seeking his mistress that he so often met and you conversed with a few young ladies that freshly debuted. Their endless questions about marriage surely kept you busy from doing anything impulsive. Not matter how deep was the affection you held, you never intended to disrespect Daphne like that. So your willingness in swallowing oceans of tears from spilling out was your engagement gift for her.

As the last guest left, you prepared for your departure yourself. It was late and you were out of distractions, which naturally agitated you. Congratulating Daphne one more time with a kiss on her cheek, for both her engagement and her glamorous party. But unresolved situations always seek the most unfortunate souls. So… .

“You are leaving in such a hurry. I thought you wanted to chat for a bit.” You inhaled and exhaled sardonically.

“I don’t mind having a chat with you, my friend. But you are not one to be open for chatting.” You couldn’t help back then but to be a bit sassy.

“And what exactly are you implying?” His tone proved patience and you were terribly distressed in comparison to it.

“You never, once, thought in giving me one announcement about your grant move to England. London is pretty close to our town, is it?” You spoke so wry but his resolve seemed unaffected by your cynical words.

“The envelope was sealed with the place it arrived from.” He argues, calmly. Well, the mail guy did informed you they had troubles in delivering your letters and he asked you once to confirm the address. Since you never sweated for anything due to your prestigious life, you told him just to send it where it came from. But you felt petty.

“I give you my utter apologies for ripping the envelope in pure excitement to hear from you. I never knew it required riddles in order to be spoken to. Maybe the envelope also had an invitation for us to meet. Or did I miss that one out too?”

“You are a married woman, are you not? And before that you were engaged.” Even your heartbeats lay silent from such splash.

“You are engaged yourself and you seek m—.”

“Exactly. I never wished to taint your reputation. People tend to love taking advantage of bad rumours and… weaknesses.”

“Thank God that you are rational enough to protect me. Those hidden achievements and engagement were also part of your confusing mechanism of protection?”

“What’s so confusing about being reserved towards a taken young lady that also never bothered to invite me to her wedding?” You sighted. “But I will invite you. Before Daphne does.”

“For what reason?” You frowned.

“To rip our bond apart by breaking both of our hearts. Writing to each other was a grave mistake and I’m the only one responsible. What we have goes way beyond friendship and I could never forgive myself for ruining your life. My selfish acts are ending today.” There was no need for a wedding invitation, your heart was already breaking.

“Congratulations on your engagement. Daphne is a lovely pick.” You changed the subject and looked down, not exactly brave enough to face his spellbinding company so near to you.

“She sure is.” You looked up back to him, as if you were thunderstruck that he complimented her and you were irritated on yourself for the way you reacted out of your burning hot emotions. “But I could describe you to be more than just lovely.” There were many signs in stopping madness. Retreat is a prideful solution. But your captivation defeated your judiciousness. You were so close in committing the biggest betrayal and scandal in British society just because his composure slipped for a second.

His irises shined like a chapel in the middle of a harsh night, just as he had in those days where you used to play tag under the sun’s rays and preservation. And you sought that chapel without fail, like Sleeping Beauty’s thorns that implored warmth from the living. But his eyes are blessed now with ripened maturity. His melancholy barely held back his impatience. What if your lips met for once? Would your lips ache more or indulge in awe without the twinge of regret? You never levitated around such thought until, well, that. You considered that’s nothing more evil than desiring that forbidden contact and crashing your lips to his just because he admitted to being as affected as you, just because he gave you one last confession. And a kiss feels like a tempting meaningful goodbye. But you still had a heart. You made the right choice for your conscience. You chose the good again. So you left. Your principles and values stopped you before any movement flowed. Your body felt like it started to float into nothing and your head broke into a unsolicited dizziness. You bored repulsion for the way your insantiable desire almost sabotaged the two people you held dear.

Concentrating in your volunteering as a teacher was a good momentary diversion. Devoting yourself to your friendship with Daphne was a reminder to endure your place, to not venture into destruction. Arabella always soothed you just by being present. You never envisioned a future where you and Edgar have children. It’s hard to picture it. But Arabella considered you a mother figure (you were surprised about it. You expected her to pick Daphne since she looked similar to her mother). More often than not, you perceived her as the child you will never have. Her similarities to Daphne were also another token to not shatter in the name of passion. You continued to see him at different gatherings, whenever he had the time and the will to attend. He embodies a phantom but despite your fright to them, you were content in stealing glances whenever his was elsewhere. Your phantom shared the same tactic, your eyes clashing and breaking apart quickly on numerous occasions. There were rare intense moments too, where you looked at each other like two puppies for long periods of time. Oh, how Shakespeare would had wrote something just by beholding the two of you. How fantastic! Tragedy makes profit. He might as well rewrite Romeo and Juliet. But Romeo and Juliet are not as effective as routine. Routine was efficient and kept you sane and in control. So, Shakespeare, put that pen down.

Life finally started to be silent again.

But the loudest of mornings cursed you. The alley was flooded with people and the clouds in the sky were dark and about to shower the civilians with a good ol’rain. Serenity’s strings sometimes lay in busy streets, where great numbers of people pass through without minding each other — the serenity’s winsomeness in coexisting in dispassion. You had a basket full of exotic fruits from a business exchange your husband succeeded. You wanted to share this opulence with your students.

“Miss, y/n!” How could you not recognise that enthusiasm? You wouldn’t dare to ever forget Arabella’s voice. Across the street she waved while jumping. You waved back with a big smile. Without hesitation, she hurried herself in crossing the street to catch up to you. It was a sort of ritual to wait on that spot just to walk side by side with you on the way to school. A habit you established together because you found only blessings in her and how privileged you felt to attest such soothing way of navigating herself. Hardship never reached Arabella’s quintessentially, she had a real and inconsteable monumental strength for finding happiness in her circumstances.

That exact happiness always bubbled in your chest as you watched her.

But a carriage is always much faster and not even a fully developed body could sometimes survive that.

Air no longer brought itself towards your lungs, the cut was short in pulsing soreness. The basket lay forgotten on the ground. The fruits rolled on the road and they lost their purpose as they were stepped on by others that witnessed the accident.

She was still breathing.

The flicker of life awaits the mercy of fate.

She had no markings left from the impact.

You held her.

And it’s hunting.

The way you felt her insides in its entirely broken despite the absence of bruises. That’s more terrifying than the presence of blood.

Medical assistants rushed while carrying the still living body of Arabella at the gate’s of Sacred Heart Hospital. You followed them in your despair. Cheeks engraved with pitiful tears. Your hair catastrophically a mess from punishing it with your hands that moved in sickening adrenaline. You were a mess yourself.

Maybe messiness attracted him. Like flies to a discomposing cadaver.

“Finsen.” You had to catch an indispensable breath in order to continue any proposition. Shaking fingers curled into his coat, gripping tightly in harrow. He had quite the aversion in watching you tormented. “The time we have does not allow any explanation. You must help her. She’s barely holding on. I beg of you-“

Finsen who was evidently taken aback, interrupted you. “I’m not the assigned doctor. But-“ . Your frenzied state interrupted him back. He obviously wanted to accept in assisting the urgent intervention but you felt the horrid passing of time. Like a clock that keeps ticking in your circulation. Your instincts doubt her survival and it’s petrifying.

“I beg. I beseech you. Just be present there.” Your eyes widened, paving for salty tears an easier road for them to slip away and waste themselves on your cheeks. You barely swallowed your cries. “Just be there in my name.” Whining quickly came back.

“Then I give you my word. I shall do my outmost.” He held one of your hands that was still clenching his clothes and squeezed it a bit painfully. Maybe he was distressed himself. A distress formed from your misery and his own wishful thinking to save Arabella. Or perhaps it’s his condition of not being able to perceive pain. Or both. A flee from his trained movements because you were hysterical and he too was capable of feeling anguish. So he walked past you. You stayed. Snot almost came out of your nose. Her dad, who worked hard day and night in the mines, just to ensure he can still keep her in school, arrived shortly after that. Leaving his work at the mines is an awful idea no matter the reason. But how could anyone bear discipline while your world is slowly drifting away? He dropped to his knees, forehead sweaty and breath laboured in travail. The father hated himself for not being at her side in her last moments. Just like he couldn’t be present when his wife struggled nearing her end. He knew she despised him for it. She regretted marrying a miner. She hated the world for not giving her a chance notwithstanding her beauty. She lived bearing the weight of her unfair destiny and died unjustly.

You trembled by yourself for the rest of the day.

But your body remained so still at the funeral. It proven to be not of big deal. Just relatives and some random locals. Her dad was wrecked. So were you. The bells of the church rang slowly and it mortified you. Muffled cries, followed by louder ones in performance and of course, gossip.

“I’m telling ya, once this funeral is over, he’s getting into drinking and smoking, until one of them kills him or the mines. He won’t live long, he will surely follow after her.” The elders were the biggest gossipers and had the kindest of smiles once you caught them in the act. Whoever stated that wiseness comes with arrival of white stands and wrinkles was gravely mistaken.

“You should pay them no mind. People like them are beyond redemption.” Finsen also showed himself. Daphne got an invitation for the funeral and it was only expected from him to attend it as her fiancé. You failed to notice how shaken he was himself. Not that any of that mattered while you were experiencing grief for the first time. But not the last. You couldn’t even properly look at him. You can always focus on one grief at the time after all. And you still loathed exhibiting weakness in front of him.

“Did she die peacefully and without battle?” Your question made him clear his throat.

“It would be a good moment to lie to you but I’m well aware you wouldn’t appreciate nor believe it.” Your eyes gradually richened in water. You felt that you were not entitled to show much suffering. To have your own discourse about Arabella even if you prepared one. She was never your daughter and you were never her mother. You were just her teacher. That failed in the duty of guarding. Compelled to observe your punishment for negligence. You remember thinking that you would come off as fool, even disrespectful if you dared to display all the bereavement you held. You barely handled the engagement between Finsen and Daphne and you were doing a terrible job at managing matters of such in general. That’s another rue you have — being a coward at Arabella’s funeral. She would have wanted you to lay bare your speech for her and weep as much as you wanted to in front of the coffin. She was a smart kid, knowing that bottling up emotions is unfavourable. You thought her that. And many other lessons you usually don’t pursue. Hoping that at least she would stick to them. She ended up giving you one. Death and grief were unfamiliar to you. And unfamiliarity was your feared obscure enemy. Privilege can be very disadvantageous sometimes. You pressed your lips tightly, to preserve concentration in hardly maintained composure.

The towering church blinded your vision with execration. Pastors loomed in solemn impassivity. You felt no divine presence in the timeworn Home Of God. It’s weathered’s walls decorated with an accumulation of sins. Their ice tones were encouraged by its manufacture, sentences of insouciance held venom for such a sainted personality. Is this God’s so-called providence? Such a low mock.

Her funeral was too humble. A joke. Not taken seriously by His men.

Is God enabling benevolence only for the top of the chain? Aren’t we all equal in His Eyes? Is one’s wealth the only basis of His benediction? (can you tell I suffered religious trauma and lost my faith once? *bites lower lip*)

,,God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we invent?” Friedrich Nietzsche in the Gay Science. (i love you Nietzsche, so deeply).

God is dead.

We wiped His Light.

And we crafted religion.

Heaven’s grace descends for status. What if God is a dictator? Picking favourites, fogged in judgment and ruthless. That is not His Love. That is His Authority. And small we lay before Him. You refuse to preach such a God. A leader with the title of our creator. Why did we kill Him and placed a profanation in His place? Why life emerges just to be stolen?

When the gates of paradise opens, the most devoted mortal will find his real God discomposed and abandoned on his throne with flies and insects devouring his once celestial skin.

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” William Shakespeare in The Tempest. (It’s so good trust).

You watched His representatives play foul and deplorable. Corrupt. A sacrilege to His Entity. Their desecration is vile. A blasphemy! Blasphemies! All of them are blasphemies! But if His rules roll around discrimination and you clearly fit His favouritism — why your presence doesn’t make Arabella’s funeral sacred? Why?

“Am I the subject of God’s mistreatment?” you muttered in helplessness, only for you to hear. But Finsen heard your afflicted murmurs.

Maybe he wanted to ease your pain. Maybe that’s why he took your hand in his and it slipped and locked so easily like he never forgot how to do it. But that stung you more. It felt like on top of this whole funeral that was not meant to be held, he also rubbed it in your face how he cannot be yours. Like you wanted him to. Like I said, he was your grief and phantom. Your ghost of ‘what if’. Always what ifs. So you retreated your hand at the funeral. Harshly.

“Daphne is here, I will no longer tolerate any disrespect for her nor my marriage.” You spitted those words with more hatred than you intended.

“Right. My apologies.”

The way back you felt sick for sitting in a carriage. For one is a practical form for comfort, for another denotes reaching the end of the string of life. Death is an uninvited guest. Edgar told you something. You refused to pay attention. You weren’t going to accept your husband’s pity or affection of all people. In fact, nobody that you knew could have that role besides him. He was your only option that you refused to take because what other choice you had? The two people you admired had all the reasons to fall in love with each other and Daphne was the right fit. She was more considerate, virtuous, calmer, blessed with a reality check that you dodged for most of your life. What you lack she had. And what she lacked you don’t besides a stupid status that did nothing more but made you so ignorant. So naive.

Gold and diamonds were guaranteed for you since birth. A privileged schedule that safeguarded you from any endeavour. A dazzling program packed with properties, jewels, a perfect husband and an untroubled way to exist. A narrative to be thankful for. But you undesired it. It’s a superfluous course. You opt for swimming against it. You were aspired to have something for yourself. Not something gifted by blood. Yours and only yours. Something you made to happen. It’s so wistful. You’re idealising Finsen because he’s the incarnation of your intimate decisions. Intimate, the word suggests it cannot belong to anyone else. Even if you were born poor and secluded, you are convinced that Finsen would still be your ethos. He opened a corner that only you could occupy, not related to your unsolicited presents and the wishes of your family. Yours and only yours. He is your fortuity. He is your religion. Ah, the feared attachment.

For weeks you avoided socialising, reading any newspaper, eating properly and leaving your residence. You notified the school that you are no longer coming back. That place became so unbearable. Your older brother moved in for a few days and Daphne visited, alone, per your request. Your brother, Adam, always had that incapable look when Daphne was near. He lacked courage in facing your mother. Your mother made it clear, she won’t allow him to be wed to a half title like Daphne. In contrast to you, he feared mother. So Adam remained unmarried. Sometimes you found yourself wishing that he had it in him, to be with Daphne. His pathetic demeanour every time Daphne visited angered you. Those what ifs again.

But even wretchedness is temporary.

Exactly three months passed and you got somehow used to it. Against your will. Human nature is strange, the wound is still there but you kind of accepted it. Like a molecule that fusions and it’s irreversible. A part of your anatomy. You had no choice in the matter. Volatile emotions. If reminiscing about Arabella got less excruciating, you started thinking about him and the other way around. But there was a key difference. Arabella was a subject of confusion. When somebody dies so abruptly and unexpectedly, it feels unreal that they are actually gone. Meanwhile, the other was an exasperating one. Almost equal in their intensity. Sometimes you almost thought this loop was going to be endless.

So imagine your astonishment when you stumbled upon the most scandalous spectacle of them all. Daphne left. Or so you thought. Because her and your brother are definitely sharing the most tender affection now. A kiss that could only be compared to a fire aaaaaand lust. Adam is the timid type, so is she. But their movements were far from shyness and your reaction was far from disappointment. Is it that wicked that you hold no guilt for the joy you are overflowed with? It’s hard to illustrate. It’s a variety of relapse and you are injected with a dose so great that you feel alive. It’s not the right thing but nothing went right in your life lately so you might as well give in. It’s a very immoral ground and an awful motive but when you are addicted, you are addicted. The next thing you knew, is that you grabbed your shoes and left through the back door by only wearing your black night grown under your coat. You arrived on the street just in time. Edgar’s carriage got back. The driver left him at his mistress’s place and he was trained to transport him secretly. So you can only guess the driver’s face when you asked him to take you to the Sacred Heart Hospital urgently while you were dressed clearly indecently (everyone is cheating and i think I’m funny). The poor man sighed with that knowing look. What a goddamn overwhelming job. You once heard from Daphne about his frequent night shifts. You really test your luck tonight. You are down for the gamble.

The only person outside was one night guard. An old grandpa that got his slumber interrupted by you.

“Excuse me, sir! Do you happen to know where Doctor Finsen Hunter is?” You spoke so fast that you had to repeat yourself.

“My goodness… .” He slowly closed his eyes and opened them, disoriented. “On the first floor. Take the back door, it will directly lead you… “. He noticed how you already left in a hurry. “… to him.” He lifted his shoulders and went back to his slumber, unbothered.

The door is right in front of you.

You have the ‘key’.

You want to unseal it.

That’s when the first red flag appeared.

A/N: ughh this was such a pain to correct and polish. You can tell the ending is rushed. I’m tireeeeeeeed. At first I was pretty much filled with pride for writing this one but soon enough, I started to loath it after correcting it so much😭. I’m also a bit burned out so I need at least 1 week to recover.

Tag list: @yoshinoritoshi hii.:)

@buniitear cf fată?;)

@weeping-statue

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