Silas stepped into the house, and the knock came like fate.
He opened the door.
The girls stood there—beautiful in that terrifying way, like flowers growing from graves.
Smiling like saints, laughing like lambs.
But they were not innocent.
They were giving their lives to a man who wore humanity like a costume.
Or perhaps they loved a man who had become something worse than myth.
They stepped in without hesitation.
From the backyard, Verin emerged, golden and terrible, with soil on his hands and sin on his smile.
"What brings such beautiful ladies to my little palace?"
The girls giggled like girls do before the burn.
One of them, flushed and trembling, said,
"We are here to serve you, king…"
Verin laughed.
Not kindly.
His chuckle held the edge of a blade—sharp and soft all at once.
Silas watched.
The only one in the room who could see that this was no scene of flirtation.
It was a sermon. A sacrifice. A warning.
He left the house without a word.
He visited his old home as he always did—not because he missed it,
but so it wouldn't forget him.
---
By the time he returned, the house was quiet and clean.
Too clean.
The kind of clean that speaks of guilt, or worse—intention.
Verin came out of the kitchen with hands still warm from the stove.
Silas narrowed his eyes.
"What were you doing?"
"Cooking."
"Why?"
"So you can eat."
Silas said nothing.
Later, they sat at the table, two ghosts pretending to be married.
The silence between them wasn't empty—it was too full.
It pressed in on their skin.
It whispered under every fork scrape and heartbeat.
After the meal, Verin stood at the sink.
He washed the plates like a good man.
Like a lie that had taken form.
"You're not committing sins anymore," Silas said quietly.
Verin chuckled—a familiar, rotting sound.
"Who said I am not?"
"No more burning the truth."
"That doesn't mean I've stopped."
"So… you're still doing those things."
"Yes."
"Aren't you ashamed?"
Verin turned, his hands dripping, his smile sharp.
"Why should I be?"
"You ruin lives because you think it's fun."
"It is fun."
"You're sick."
"And you're still here."
Silas didn't flinch. Just sighed.
"Sometimes I wonder what happened to you… in your childhood. What made you like this?"
Verin dried his hands and faced him like a mirror turned toward flame.
"Not everyone needs a tragedy to become monstrous."
"I suppose you're right."
"I always am."
"Bullshit."
Silas vanished down the hall, and Verin stood there smiling.
---
Days passed like quiet storms.
The backyard, once dead and forgotten, now bloomed like it was grateful to be seen.
Verin became busy.
Busy with work. Busy with secrets. Busy with sins.
Silas became the one who cooked now.
Verin still washed the dishes, humming sometimes—like a man trying to convince himself he's happy.
Then one night, Verin came home with blood on his clothes.
Silas stared at him, quiet but sharp.
"Whose blood is that?"
Verin didn't answer. Just smiled with that new, cold edge.
"Why should I tell you?"
This was a new Verin.
Less sugar. More steel.
Silas turned away, exhausted.
"Whatever."
Dinner was silence.
Later, the bath was steam.
Then Silas stood on the balcony, letting the wind toy with his hair, watching the crops that no one prayed for.
Behind him, a presence.
Verin leaned against the door, watching him like hunger made flesh.
Silas, unaware at first, looked like something holy under the moonlight—
His hair catching silver like threads of heaven.
His eyes, cold oceans no ship could cross.
His skin, ghostlit and soft.
To Verin, he was a relic. A reward. A ruin worth worshiping.
Silas turned, sensing the gaze.
"What are you looking at?"
"The view," Verin said.
And Silas knew.
The moon glowed. The wind whispered.
And silence curled between them like smoke from a dying candle.
Silas moved to go inside—
But Verin was still blocking the door.
"Move."
"Why should I?"
"It's cold."
"So?"
Their faces were close now—close enough to feel breath.
"Are you stupid?"
"Maybe. But I'm not moving."
"I want to go inside."
"Then go around."
"Why are you like this?"
"Who knows?"
Silas's eyes narrowed—ice over flame.
But Verin only saw beauty.
Like a painting behind glass: untouchable. Devastating.
"I said move."
"No."
So Silas reached forward.
He touched Verin.
His fingers wrapped around Verin's wrist—just enough to shift him.
It was small.
But to Verin, it was everything.
Silas guided him aside, brushed past him, entered the room,
and let go.
Verin stood there in the doorway, frozen.
He looked at his hand like it had just been anointed.
Touched. Blessed.
Cursed.
The wind still stirred the night air—
But Verin could only feel that touch.
Like a ghost that refused to leave.