Everything hurts.
Not in the dramatic, poetic way. Not pain like fire or ice or metaphor.
Just pain.
My body is a sack of nerves dipped in acid. My skin is screaming. My bones feel wrong inside me, like they don't fit this shape. My lungs rasp like i've been drowning in ash. My hand—gods, my hand—it's a raw, blistered mess wrapped around something burning.
i try to open my fingers.
They won't.
i pry them apart. Slow. Shaking. The pain makes me whimper, and i hate that sound. Weak. Small. But the feather's still there. Pressed into my palm like it grew out of me.
It's still hot.
Not fire-hot. Not surface-of-the-sun hot.
Alive-hot.
The feather pulses. A beat. A rhythm. A tiny, golden heart thudding in my ruined hand.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It shouldn't be here.
He's gone. Ripped away by some divine failsafe, like the universe hit the panic button. But he left this behind. A piece of him. A sliver of angel.
A mistake.
i close my fist around it again. The pain spikes. And something else rides with it—something bright and wrong and electric. It slides up my arm and into my skull.
The System wakes up.
It's not a screen this time. Not a clean box of light. It's just… whispers. Inside my head. Thoughts that aren't mine, slithering through the cracks of my own.
…good girl… it purrs. The voice is slick. Oily. It makes my skin crawl. …you made the angel run…
i didn't. He just… left.
…you made him afraid… the voice insists. …afraid of you. afraid of what he wanted. and for that, you get a reward…
The heat in my palm flares. The thudding heartbeat of the feather syncs with my own. A jolt of pure pleasure, sharp and shocking, shoots through me. It's so intense it makes my vision go white for a second. It burns away the pain. Just for a moment. Leaving behind a clean, addictive ache.
…Partial Sin Accrued: +100 SP…
The number isn't a number. It's a feeling. A warm rush. A hit of dopamine straight to the brainstem. It feels like validation. It feels like power.
…Affinity Update: Archangel Azeriel is… conflicted. wary. he is thinking of you…
The whisper is a laugh. A cold, mocking sound.
…he is afraid of you…
A new warmth spreads through my chest. Not from the feather. From the words. He's afraid of me. Me. A broken thing in a doll's body. Good.
…Sin Threshold reached… the voice hums, pleased. …a new gift for a new sinner…
The purple aura i saw before, the thread of smoke, it thickens. It wraps around my body like a shroud. It doesn't heal me. Not really. But it… numbs things. It holds the broken pieces of me together.
[Sinner's Grace Lv. 2]: Your soul's sin provides a natural armor against the holy. Divine judgment… it tickles now.
The whispers fade, leaving me alone with the thudding in my hand and the echo of its words. He's thinking of me. He's afraid. The thought is a shield against the pain.
Slowly, shakily, i get to my feet. Every muscle screams. i lean against a pillar, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The cathedral is still silent. The weeping angels still watch.
My mission. i have to… what was the mission? A kiss. A stupid, impossible kiss.
i failed.
But the system doesn't sound angry. It sounds… hungry.
The whispers come back. A new voice. Deeper. Colder. Not a suggestion this time. A command. Words of black fire branding themselves onto the inside of my skull.
NEW MAIN QUEST: CORRUPT THE ANGEL OF JUDGMENT
My breath catches. Corrupt him. Not seduce him. Not kill him. Corrupt him. Break him. Remake him into something as twisted and broken as me.
It's a disgusting thought. Vile. Wrong.
And every single part of me wants it.
This is a mission i can understand. This is a language i speak.
i look down at the feather in my hand. The bond. The tether. The first link in a chain i'm going to wrap around his pretty, golden neck. The pain from my burned palm is a dull, throbbing ache now. A promise.
A cold, sharp grin spreads across my face. It's my face now. This doll's face. i'm starting to like it.
i clutch the feather tight, letting the addictive burn ground me.
"Let's see how much a god can bleed," i whisper to the silent, watching statues.
The last word echoes. And the world breaks.
The marble floor beneath my feet cracks, a web of black fissures spreading out from me. The weeping angels crumble, their faces of stone turning to dust. The star-filled ceiling shatters like glass, raining down shards of cold, dead light. The cathedral, the prison, the dream… it's all falling apart.
My vision whites out again. Not from pain this time. From… change. A violent, wrenching shift.
And then i'm somewhere else.
i'm lying on something soft. So soft. My eyes blink open. The blinding whiteness is gone. Replaced by… shadows.
A canopy of dark silk hangs above me. The sheets beneath my cheek are cool and smooth. The air smells like incense and old books. It's a bed. A real bed. In a real room.
My body aches. A deep, profound ache that feels real in a way the divine punishment didn't. i try to sit up. My muscles protest, weak and shaky. This isn't the doll body from the dream. It's the same, but… solid. Heavier. More… breakable.
My right hand is wrapped in clean white bandages. And even through the cloth, i can feel it.
The heat.
The feather is still there. Tucked into my palm like a secret. A sin.
i swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet touching a cold stone floor. i'm wearing a simple silk nightgown. White. The irony isn't lost on me.
The door to the room creaks open.
A girl comes in. A servant. Young. Scared. She's carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and a bowl. She sees me, and her eyes go wide. The tray clatters to the floor, water splashing everywhere.
"My-my lady!" she stammers, her face pale with terror. "You're… you're awake! But… you shouldn't be! The Duke… he said…"
The Duke. My supposed father. The name rings a bell. A faint, distant memory that isn't mine. Duke Ravaryn. This estate.
And then it hits me. A flash of knowledge that comes from this body, from this Eve. Not a memory. A premonition. A scene from a story i haven't read but somehow know.
This is the day the villainess dies.
This Eve, the original owner of this body, is scheduled to be sacrificed tonight. A public ritual. A spectacle to "cleanse" her cursed bloodline and appease some angry god. This isn't the beginning of the story. This is Chapter 3. The part where the annoying side character gets killed off to move the plot forward.
They didn't just put me in a prison. They put me on death row.
The servant is still babbling, her hands twisting in her apron. Something about priests and purification. Words that mean nothing. All i hear is the ticking of a clock.
i have hours. Maybe less.
The assassin's mind, the cold, calculating part of me, takes over. It pushes down the panic, the pain, the fear. It analyzes.
This room is a cage. The ritual is an execution. My father is the executioner.
i have no weapons. No allies. No knowledge of this world. Just a broken body, a parasite in my head, and a feather from a god who wants me dead.
The servant is watching me, her eyes full of fear and pity.
The system whispers. A new choice. The first real one.
Your fate approaches. What will you do?
A) Attempt to escape the estate. (High probability of failure. You are weak.)
B) Plead with your father, Duke Ravaryn, for mercy. (He has none.)
C) Attend the ritual.
The first two options are death sentences. Running is stupid. Begging is worse.
But the third option… attend the ritual. Walk willingly to my own execution. It's insane. It's suicide.
But they're expecting a sacrifice. A weak, weeping girl to be led to the slaughter.
They're not expecting me.
A slow smile spreads across my face. The servant flinches.
They want a spectacle. They want a show.
I'll give them one.
i choose C.
"Don't worry," i tell the terrified servant girl, my voice surprisingly steady. "I have no intention of missing my own party."
i stand up, clutching the feather in my bandaged hand.
Time to hijack an execution.