The monastery was a labyrinth of cold stone walls and suffocating silence, where every breath felt watched, judged, weighed. The Father Harumichi ruled here, his voice velvet and steel, weaving guilt and devotion into a chain so tight that even rebellion felt like blasphemy. He spoke of salvation through suffering, of how the pain they endured—a life by the schedule, the icy mornings, the empty stomachs, the endless prayers and backbreaking, forced labor,—was a necessary cleansing.

Akito hated him. Not openly—no one dared. To question Father was to invite suspicion, punishment, or worse, the scorn of the others. Children, wide-eyed and desperate for guidance, clung to his every word, defending him as if doubting his sanctity would damn them. Akito saw through the facade. Harumichi’s charisma was a mask for control, his sermons a weapon of manipulation.

Even Toya, perfect and beautiful, bore the weight of his dad’s shadow. Toya was a model for all the novices, the ideal that the Father guided the other children towards while Akito simmered in silence.

In secret, they whispered. Late at night, in the corners of their prison-like dormitory, Akito and Toya would huddle close, their voices barely audible. That quiet closeness, fleeting and fragile, was his only salvation—but it terrified him. What kind of sin, Akito wondered, could feel this good? The forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest.

Akito's heart pounded as he sprinted through the dark corridors, the weight of his every step pressing him down. He could almost taste the freedom—just a little farther, just one more corner. But the door slammed open behind him, and strong hands grabbed him, pulling him back into the clutches of the church. The pain came fast—brutal blows that tore through his skin.

Bruised and broken, Akito lay on his bed, waiting for the inevitable punishment. The door creaked. He expected one of the elders, but instead, it was Toya, standing in the doorway, eyes fierce with something Akito couldn’t place.