Soren's footsteps echoed unevenly over the cobblestones, but he hardly noticed.
The streets of Ingrid blurred past his eyes, shapes and shadows melding together.
He didn't remember when the forest had ended or when the streets had begun.
The lights of the city flickered dimly under the night sky, distant, as if filtered through a thick fog.
He held his cloak tightly around his shoulders, clutching it as if it could keep him whole.
Every movement made the fabric scrape against the blood still crusted on his skin.
He didn't look at the people passing him.
They stared, some in shock, some in disgust, but he didn't see them, didn't register them.
His eyes were hollow, like empty vessels moving through a world he had no desire to touch.
He could feel the weight of the blood, the stickiness, the smell, but it was nothing compared to the feeling that clung to him deeper than any stain on his skin.
He pressed his palms against the fabric, rubbing as if trying to wash away the memory of the rough hands and the breath against his neck, of being touched when he didn't want it.
'They deserved it.'
The thought repeated like a dull, flat chant.
'They deserved it.'
'I had to.'
His mind clung to that, the only tether to justification he could hold.
When a passerby called out a greeting, asking if he was okay, Soren smiled automatically.
His lips moved, his face curved, but he didn't realise until much later that no sound had come from his mouth.
A child ran past, giggling, and Soren's hands tightened around the cloak, pressing it harder against him.
He wanted to disappear.
When the Guild finally came into view, he didn't feel relief.
The sign swinging above the door, the glow of the lights inside, the faint laughter from within; it was all distant, like watching from behind glass.
He didn't remember stepping through the doorway.
Inside, the receptionist he had grown close to looked up, her smile warm.
"Oh! You're back! Are you alright?"
Soren forced his lips into the faintest smile, nodding once.
"I'm… fine."
He didn't notice the hesitation in her eyes, didn't notice the way her hands paused over the ledger.
The receptionist had seen enough to know better than to push.
She just nodded and returned to her work.
Soren walked past her counter, each step heavy.
His boots left faint streaks on the wooden floor, traces of the night's events.
He moved mechanically, heading straight for the notice board, pulling the request down, taking it to the desk, and showing that he was alive.
Then they appeared.
Witch Hunt.
Morrigan stepped forward first, her green eyes filled with concern.
"Soren… are you alright?"
He nodded once,
Alice's blonde hair caught the lamplight as she moved closer, trying to catch his attention.
"We were so worried! We—"
He cut her off with a quiet apology.
"Sorry."
Amber remained in the shadows, hood pulled low, watching.
"..."
Soni twitched, her tail flickering, her yellow eyes curious but soft.
"Hmm…"
Hannah leaned forward, her grey eyes scanning his face.
"You look awful…"
They surrounded him, their voices gentle and filled with care that he couldn't accept.
"We're here for you," Morrigan said, reaching a hand to stroke his hair.
Soren recoiled sharply, jerking back instinctively.
His cloak flew with the movement, half-exposing the torn edges of his clothing, the blood, the scratches.
Panic rose inside him like a living thing.
His breaths came fast, shallow.
"No," he whispered.
Morrigan froze, eyes wide, but Soren didn't wait for her to retract her hand.
He slipped through the circle they formed, moving toward the exit with a speed that made his legs tremble from effort and fear.
He did not glance back; he couldn't.
Upstairs, the cold air hit him like a physical force.
He leaned against the wall, shivering, his hands still gripping the cloak, pulling it tight.
The smell of the tavern, the distant chatter, it all pressed on him, and he wanted nothing but to vanish.
When he finally staggered to the showers, the door slammed behind him with a hollow echo.
He undressed as fast as his shaking hands allowed, discarding the torn and bloody clothing.
He looked down at his body.
It was covered in sweat, dirt, and blood, but none of that mattered.
It wasn't the stains that made him gag.
It was the memory of hands on him, of fingers gripping, of the press of flesh against his own.
He scrubbed frantically, water stinging his cuts, trying to erase the phantom touches that clung to his skin.
Tears ran frantically down his cheeks, hot and unrelenting, mixing with the cold spray.
His skin was reddened and raw, but the feeling didn't fade.
It wouldn't.
"I did what I had to."
He whispered it again, and again, repeating it like a prayer, like a lifeline.
His breaths were ragged, each shuddering gasp ripping through him.
His body trembled, his fingers scraped at his skin, at the red marks forming under the furious scrubbing.
He cried harder, and still, the feeling clung.
When he finally leaned against the tiles, dripping and shivering, he could only stare at his reflection in the metal frame of the shower head.
The face staring back was still unfamiliar.
Hollow eyes, a tight jaw, the tremor of panic frozen in his expression.
The night stretched endlessly, each tick of the clock a hammer in his mind.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
Soren was already awake when the first light of morning crept through the small window of his room.
His body lay still under the thin blankets, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
He didn't stir at the sound of the city outside, didn't move when the sun shifted over the walls.
His mind was elsewhere, detached, hovering somewhere between that night that had passed and the numbness that clung to him now.
Eventually, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose mechanically.
The motion felt foreign, as though he were moving someone else's body.
Clothes were pulled on with careful, deliberate motions, nothing fast, nothing fluid.
Each garment pressed against his skin like it was too tight, but he didn't stop to adjust.
The cloak went over his shoulders, hood drawn low, shielding his face from the light and the world.
He left the room quietly, stepping into the corridor of the inn.
The floor creaked faintly under his weight, but he barely registered the sound.
He moved toward the women's bathroom as usual, letting the water chase away the remnants of sleep, or perhaps just the haze of the past few nights.
The splash of cold water on his face made him flinch slightly, though he tried to ignore it, rubbing the droplets across his cheeks and forehead in automatic motions.
When he emerged, his steps carried him downstairs, and he slid into the tavern.
He went straight to the far corner, pressing himself against the walls as if the edges of the room could protect him from everything else.
The chatter of other adventurers, the clatter of dishes, the smell of cooked food; all of it seemed distant, like someone had draped a thick cloth over the world.
He tried to call the server over, but his hoarse voice barely left his lips.
No one heard.
He tried again after a few moments, quietly, holding his cloak tighter around himself.
The server finally noticed him and came over, tilting her head with a small frown of concern.
"The cheapest breakfast set, please," he whispered, barely audible.
The food came, and he ate slowly, mechanically.
Each bite felt tasteless as he chewed and swallowed without a thought.
By the time his stomach was full, over half of the meal still remained.
He pushed the plate aside and stood, leaving a couple of coins on the table and moving back to the stairs without a word.
The women's bathroom welcomed him again, and he almost collided with someone exiting.
He flinched violently, jerking aside to avoid touching the stranger as his pulse hammered in his chest and he hurried inside.
The shower ran long and hot, scalding in the steam and water, but it didn't matter.
He scrubbed at his skin until it was red and aching, tears mixed in with the water as the phantom memories of hands lingered on him, refusing to be washed away.
After the shower, he dressed carefully in his academy uniform once again.
The cloak went over everything, hood drawn low to shield him from any unwelcome eyes.
He paused, staring at himself for a brief moment in the mirror, but didn't meet his reflection.
Instead, he pulled the hood lower, hiding, shielding, and preparing himself to face the world again.
The Guild's main hall was quiet as he walked in, the request board looming ahead.
He walked toward it carefully, his eyes scanning the slips of paper without really reading them.
Finally, a request for collecting medicinal herbs caught his attention.
He picked it up before his hands moved over to another.
A monster extermination request.
His hand hovered over it for a second, trembling slightly, but he couldn't take it.
Wordlessly, he placed the herb request slip on the receptionist's desk.
Her hand reached toward him gently, but he recoiled slightly, pulling his hand back instinctively.
She didn't press, simply stamped the slip, sending him on his way.
Outside, the city of Ingrid felt alive, brighter and louder than usual.
But every sound and movement made Soren tense, every passerby a potential threat.
He moved carefully, trying to keep his distance, trying to disappear among the crowd.
Inevitably, someone brushed against him, and his body froze.
A wave of nausea and panic came crashing down upon him, threatening to overtake him.
He stumbled back slightly, muttering a quick [Clean] spell on himself, rubbing the shoulder furiously, forcing the unease down.
Once recovered, he continued toward the forest, his senses stretched to their limit.
By the time he arrived, it was past noon.
He went straight to work, gathering the medicinal herbs, every motion precise.
He ignored the sunlight and the breeze, focusing only on the plants.
His stomach gave a low, insistent rumble, a reminder that he hadn't truly eaten, but he didn't stop.
When he finished, the walk back was no easier.
He avoided the townsfolk as best as he could, keeping to the edges, keeping low, his cloak drawn around him.
Even at night, the streets of Ingrid were busy, full of life, and he couldn't help but think that he didn't belong there.
Back at the Guild, he handed in the medicinal herbs.
The coin pouch was placed on the desk silently, a transaction as wordless as he liked.
He didn't linger, didn't look at anyone, and went immediately next door; then he climbed the stairs, bypassing the tavern entirely.
Inside his room, he shed his clothes, peeling away the cloak, the uniform, the layers he had wrapped around himself.
He climbed into bed and pulled the blanket around his shoulders like a shell, a shield against the world.
And there, under the covers, muffled sobs escaped.
Quiet, stifled, and full of everything he had been trying to bury: fear, shame, anger, and the lingering touch of hands that should never have been on him.
He whispered the same words over and over.
"It wasn't my fault."
"I had to."
"They deserved it."
The night held him close while he trembled, wept, and told himself that he had done what he had to do to survive.
————「❤︎」————