The bell chimes only grew louder every second.
They rang like distant screams trapped in metal.
The sound was all Seventeen could hear.
Every ring made his heart pound as if his chest was keeping rhythm with it.
Ding.
Ding.
'Collectors? What collectors?' he thought, trembling.
Sweat poured from his skin, cooling fast against the damp air. Each drop crawled down his temple and neck, chilling him until his body trembled. The room felt smaller, tighter, the sound of the bells pressing against the walls as if trying to crush the air out of it.
He turned his head toward the bucket-headed man. Sparks flickered and jumped between the man's gloved palms, weak and sputtering before dying out. The glow wavered like a dying flame, stubbornly clinging to life. The man wasn't even looking at the door anymore. His entire focus was locked on the unstable light between his shaking hands.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
The sound was right outside the door.
A small white flash burst between the bucket-headed man's palms. At the same instant, a heavy knock crashed against the metal door.
Bang.
Bang.
The bells stopped.
The knocking stopped.
Even Seventeen's heartbeat fell silent.
He could still feel it, the faint thrum in his chest, but he couldn't hear it. The stillness was suffocating.
The bucket-headed man moved so suddenly his chair shot out from under him and crashed into the cabinet which should've created a loud thud but made no sound. He sprinted toward Seventeen, grabbed his shoulder, and shoved something small and rough into his mouth before he could react.
"Don't say a damn word or we'll both be killed," the man's voice echoed inside his head.
Seventeen's eyes widened. The words weren't heard. They vibrated inside his skull. Before he could react, the man pulled his hand away and sprinted to the door. He snapped his fingers again, this time without a sound, and brought his hand down sharply.
The world resumed.
The silence shattered. The knocking returned, louder than before.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The bucket-headed man took a deep breath, straightened his coat, and opened the door. His voice came out smooth, practiced. "Greetings, Collector-"
He stopped mid-sentence. The metallic bucket tilted slightly upward, and his body went rigid. The faint hum from within his helmet wavered.
"S-Senior Collector," he said suddenly, his tone cracking as his body straightened into a tense bow. "Forgive me. I wasn't told of your arrival. What brings you here this night?"
Seventeen couldn't see the visitor from his bed, but he could feel something. The air grew cold. Heavy. Every breath felt stolen. Every sound faded away except for the faint hum of the runes carved into the wall.
A deep, measured voice answered from the hallway. "I apologize for the intrusion, Mr. Myers."
The bucket jerked slightly. The hum inside it flickered.
"N-no, Senior Collector," Myers stammered, the bucket bowing once more. "It is my pleasure, my fortune, to have you here. Please, come in."
A golden cane tapped against the floor as the man stepped forward.
The figure moved with unhurried precision and deliberate ease, each step measured and heavy. His white robe, lined with gold and black, shimmered faintly under the dim light. Two small bells hung from his belt, swaying softly but making no sound. His gloved hand gripped a golden cane etched with living symbols that shifted faintly across its surface. The other hand was bare, revealing a golden tattoo that glowed dimly like something alive under his skin.
He stepped into the room and stopped.
And then he stood still.
The silence that followed pressed against the walls. Even the faint hum of the runes dimmed, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Not breathing.
Not blinking.
He simply was.
It was suffocating.
Myers hesitated, the bucket turning slightly toward the collector before he forced himself to move. He turned and began walking toward the far end of the room, heading for the chair he had thrown earlier. His voice quivered as he spoke, "To what do I owe this unexpected visit, Senior Collector?"
He reached the chair, bent to pick it up, and turned, then froze.
The Senior Collector was no longer standing by the door.
Seventeen blinked. He didn't even remember looking away, but somehow, the man was there. Right beside his bed.
No footsteps.
No sound.
No sign of movement.
No warning.
He was simply there.
Seventeen's entire body locked up. The air turned heavy. Seventeen didn't even dare breathe, not that he could. It was like something in the room had decided he wasn't allowed to. His hands gripped the sheets tightly, his knuckles pale. He couldn't look at the man, but every nerve screamed that he was being watched. His pulse hammered in his ears, loud enough he was sure they both could hear it. The collector's presence felt like a shadow pressing against his skin. His hood tilted slightly down toward him, the air between them dense and cold.
"Who is this boy?" The collector's voice was quiet, but it filled every corner of the room.
Deep.
Weighty.
Like a verdict already made.
Myers froze mid-step. The bucket turned sharply toward Seventeen, then to the collector. The faint hum inside it stuttered again, betraying the tremor in his composure nearly causing him to trip over the chair. "S-Sir… that boy is called Seventeen. He's a fighter from the Low Sand Pit. Just won his first glorious match. They're calling him the Undying Seventeen already."
He tried to force a laugh, desperate to fill the space. "Please, take a seat, Senior Collector. It's an honor."
The collector didn't respond. He didn't move. His face remained hidden, but Seventeen could feel his eyes or something worse on him. The gaze pierced through him like needles, heavy and unrelenting, peeling him open layer by layer. It wasn't curiosity. It was scrutiny.
The boy's throat tightened.
Seventeen's thoughts spiraled.
'Why is he looking at me?'
'Does he know?'
'Was this the man Mr.bucket head had been terrified of earlier?'
The collector finally turned away, as if losing interest. His voice came low, cold, and slow.
"The time to pay penance has come early, Mr. Myers," he said in a low, reverent tone. "To be cleansed of sin and forgiven in the eyes of the Redeemer, you must pay tribute once more."
Seventeen's eyes flicked to Myers. The man stiffened, the bucket dipping slightly in acknowledgment.
"Of course, Senior Collector." His voice wavered, but he forced steadiness into it. He walked to the cabinet, this time opening it with his hand rather than a flick of mana. He pulled out a small white pouch tied with twine and held it close to his chest.
"I thank our Redeemer, who washes me of sin and grants me forgiveness. Let this penance serve as both my faith and my offering."
The collector raised his bare hand. The golden tattoo glowed faintly, the air around it rippling faintly. The pouch lifted from Myers's palm, floating through the still air before settling into the collector's palm.
"May your faith be accepted," the collector said, voice lowering to a whisper that still managed to echo. "May the Redeemer see your devotion."
He slipped the bag into his robe.
Then, slowly, his hood turned again toward Seventeen.
The boy could feel that gaze before it landed. His chest tightened until he could barely breathe. Every muscle in his body shook.
"I will pray," the collector said, "for your continued glory, boy."
His gloved hand landed on Seventeen's shoulder with a slow, deliberate pat. The touch was heavy, lingering. The faint scent of metal and incense clung to his robes. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the door.
The bells on his belt jingled once.
The sound barely reached the ear before fading entirely.
And then nothing.
Silence.
Neither Seventeen nor Myers moved. Both sat frozen, listening to the emptiness the collector left behind.
Then, all at once, Myers collapsed into his chair. He and Seventeen shuddered and gasped for air as though surfacing from deep water.
Myers slammed a gloved hand onto the table, the hum of his helmet sputtering. "Holy hell, that was the Senior Collector," Myers muttered between breaths. "Why did he come? Did he notice? No... no, if he did, he would've purified me and the boy on the spot."
He stopped, eyes darting toward Seventeen. Then, as if realizing something, he stood abruptly and reached for the boy. "Alright, now that he's gone, you can spit it out." His tone shifted, flickering with manic excitement. "I can't believe it worked! Not how I intended, but it's the same principle! Ha!"
Seventeen blinked.
"Quick, spit it out boy!" Myers said again, holding out his hand.
"I swallowed it," Seventeen replied quietly.
"Yeah, I know, right? I was scared shi-" Myers froze mid-sentence. Slowly, the bucket tilted.
"You what?" he asked, voice tight.
Seventeen hesitated, voice small. "When he patted my back, I... I swallowed the rock."
Myers went still. Then he began trembling. His voice erupted, full of anger and despair.
"YOU IDIOT!"