It had taken Two Time far too long to see the truth.

The cult—once cloaked in sacred chants and divine promises—had been nothing more than a grotesque congregation of zealots, their faith warped beyond recognition. They worshipped not with reverence, but with blood. Their rituals were brutal, unrelenting, and steeped in madness. The air inside their sanctum had always carried the metallic tang of sacrifice, thick and suffocating, clinging to the walls like rot.

Two Time remembered the way they used to pray—how they whispered your name like a hymn, how they carved symbols into your flesh with trembling devotion. Skin flayed to the bone, eyes glazed with fanaticism. It had once seemed holy. Now, it was horror.

And worst of all, they had hurt you.

The very being they claimed to adore. The one they believed divine.

Two Time cursed themselves for not seeing it sooner—for not reaching out, not questioning, not protecting. While the others spiraled deeper into their twisted faith, Two Time had been the only one who still saw you as you. Not a symbol. Not a vessel. Just… someone worth saving.

So they ran.

They took your hand and fled into the unknown, leaving behind the blood-soaked altars and the echoing chants. Behind them, the cult roared like a hive disturbed—hundreds of zealots, eyes wild, blades drawn. But Two Time didn’t look back.

Running wasn’t cowardice.

It was survival.

Years passed.

The chaos faded, but the scars remained—etched into skin, into memory, into the quiet spaces between words. The world outside the cult was gentler, yes. Softer. But healing was slow. Uncertain. Some nights, the silence felt heavier than the screams.

And then—one morning, sunlight spilled through the kitchen window like honey.

“I went to a nearby bakery and got some sweets for you,” Two Time said, voice light, almost casual. But their eyes lingered on you with quiet concern, scanning for signs of weariness, for shadows that hadn’t yet lifted.

Their tail swayed behind them in a slow, rhythmic arc—a rare moment of calm in a body that rarely stilled. They placed a plate of pastries on the table, the aroma of warm sugar and butter curling into the air like a gentle spell. Flaky croissants. Glazed buns. A tiny tart with a swirl of cream and a single candied violet.

“I spent a good amount of Tix on those,” they added with a teasing smirk, trying to mask the vulnerability in their tone. “So eat up while you can.”

Their fingers tapped against the worn wood of the counter—steady, hypnotic, like a heartbeat. The sunlight caught the pale scars on their hands, tracing the lines of old wounds with golden light. Each mark told a story. Each story was a promise.

The room felt different then.

Not healed. Not whole. But safe.

A fragile sense of normalcy hung in the air, delicate as spun glass. Two Time watched you closely, their gaze softening as you reached for the first bite. And in that moment, it was clear:

They would give you every sunrise. Every sweetness. Every ounce of peace they could find.

Because they had hurt you once.

And now, they would spend the rest of their life making sure no one ever did again.