Devourer of Sins

The next morning began in silence. No alarm. No voices. No birds chirping by the window. Just the faint hum of electricity in the walls and the cold grip of reality coiling tighter around his chest.

He sat up slowly, drenched in sweat. The sheets clung to his legs like damp vines, twisted from a night of thrashing. His breath came shallow, uneven, and beneath his skin, something buzzed—like a nest of bees waiting to erupt.

It's still in me.

The mirror across the room caught his reflection. For a split second—no more—he saw something staring back that didn't belong. A flicker. A shimmer. A smile that curled too wide. He looked away.

Downstairs, the house was quiet in a way that wasn't peaceful. His mother stood at the sink, hands buried in soapy water, though the tap wasn't running. She didn't glance up when he entered. The TV murmured in the background—some morning show with synthetic smiles and peppy music—but it barely touched the room's stillness.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat at the table. Moments later, his little sister stepped in, already dressed in her uniform, glancing nervously between him and their mother.

"Mom?" she asked softly.

Their mother blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere deep. She turned and forced a smile. "Eat something before you leave."

"I'm not hungry," his sister murmured.

Neither was he. But he opened the bottle and drank anyway, the plastic crinkling in his grip. Pretending to be normal. Human. Not the thing from his dream. Not the monster behind the mirror.

School hadn't changed. The walls were the same pale green, the same announcements echoed over the intercom, and the same students filled the halls. But something had shifted. People looked at him differently. Teachers avoided his gaze. Classmates whispered with just enough restraint that he could feel their words more than hear them. Some even flinched when he passed.

Rumors were spreading again. They always did. That something was off. That he was dangerous.

He didn't try to deny it anymore. Because lately, he was starting to believe it.

It happened during P.E.—a chaotic round of basketball that the coach optimistically called "character building." He kept to the edge of the court, doing his best to be invisible, until Daiki—the loudest from Class 3—shoved past him.

"Move, psycho," the boy muttered.

He felt the shove but said nothing.

Another boy laughed. "Scared he'll bite you, Daiki?"

That one cut deeper than it should have. He tightened his grip on the basketball. The rubber squeaked beneath his fingers. Ignore it. You're fine. Just words.

But the itch was back—the one that slithered under his ribs and made his jaw clench. That deep, hollow hunger.

He stepped forward, intending to pass the ball, but Daiki yanked it from his hands with a smug grin. "You gonna cry about it?"

Something snapped.

His hand moved on its own, seizing Daiki by the collar and slamming him to the floor with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. A sharp gasp rippled through the gym.

Silence followed.

And in that silence, he realized something horrifying.

He hadn't been angry.

He'd enjoyed it.

The sound of Daiki choking, the panic in his eyes—it had made something inside him smile.

He didn't wait for detention. He didn't wait for the principal. He ran.

Through the halls, out the doors, past rows of shops and blurred cars and people who barely noticed him. The world was too loud, too bright. The voices in his head overlapped like radio static.

By the time he stopped, he didn't even know where he was. A park, maybe—old, forgotten, with rusted benches and weeds curling through cracked pavement. Empty. Quiet.

He collapsed onto the grass, staring up at the sky. Gray clouds churned slowly. Trees stood motionless. A single crow circled overhead.

You're sick.

He'd thought it before. But this time, it didn't sound like condemnation. It sounded like a diagnosis.

The old man appeared again—no footsteps, no warning. Just there, leaning on a lamppost as if he'd always been.

"You felt it again, didn't you?"

He didn't respond.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" the man rasped. "The power. The release. Like scratching an itch you didn't know you had."

He sat up slowly, fists in the grass. "I hurt someone."

"You've hurt a lot of people."

"I don't want to."

"That doesn't matter anymore."

The man stepped forward, cane tapping softly. "Tell me—what do you see when you dream?"

He hesitated. "A cathedral. Broken. And a mirror. My reflection talks."

The old man's eyes gleamed. "That's not a reflection. That's your core."

"My… what?"

"Your soul's truth. The parts you buried. Every instinct you denied. The glutton you fear? It's not something foreign. It's you. The real you."

"No," he whispered. "That's not me."

"It is. But that doesn't mean you have to give in."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"There's a balance. You can fight it—but only if you understand it. Accept it. Only then can you control it."

He looked down at his hands. They weren't shaking anymore. And that scared him more than anything.

He returned home late. No questions. No shouting. Just his mother on the couch, pretending to watch a cooking show. His sister passed him in the hallway, eyes downcast.

They were afraid. He could feel it radiating off them like heat.

And yet… he still loved them. That was the part that hurt most.

He went to bed without eating. Without speaking.

The dream came again.

The cathedral. The mirror. But this time, the figure inside didn't greet him with a smile—it looked… disappointed.

"Why are you running?" it asked.

"Because I'm not like you."

"You are me."

He shook his head. "I won't kill again."

"Then you'll die."

The figure stepped through the mirror, and this time it wore a different face—his own, but older. Hardened. A crown of black horns spiraled above his head, a crimson cloak dragging behind.

"I'm the Demon King," it whispered.

"No."

"You will be."

He turned to flee, but the cathedral doors slammed shut. The walls cracked. Fire burst from the stained glass, and a voice thundered from all directions.

"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR NATURE."

He screamed.

When he woke, he wasn't in bed.

He was standing. Barefoot. In the center of his room.

Blood coated his fingers. The mirror was shattered, shards scattered across the floor like broken teeth.

He didn't remember breaking it. Didn't remember moving.

Something laughed in the back of his mind.

And this time, he didn't argue.