Page 216 of Sins of the Hidden

My lips throbbed with every heartbeat, the partially sewn stitches pulling at my torn flesh. Blue thread caked with dried gore connected my upper and lower lips in three crude, uneven points. The first two stitches were tight, almost professional, but the third had torn slightly, leaving a jagged hole that leaked fresh warmth. My tongue probed cautiously at the inside of my mouth, each subtle movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating through my face.

I tried to sit up, only to fall back with a muffled cry as the room spun counterclockwise. The cabin was falling apart at the seams. Water stains darkened the corners of the ceiling, spreading like disease across the cracked wood. Mold crept up the walls where rain had seeped through gaps in the warped siding. What little furniture remained—a rickety table, two mismatched chairs—might have been salvaged from a dump. Asingle bulb dangled from a frayed cord, casting sickly yellow light that barely reached the corners. The whole place reeked of rot, damp, and something else—despair, maybe.

A floorboard creaked. I jerked toward the sound, every muscle tensing despite the pain it caused.

"H-Hello?" A soft voice called from the shadows.

My breath hitched at the unfamiliar voice, the movement tearing at my partial stitches. Fresh liquid trickled down my chin as I winced. I squinted into the dimness, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A figure emerged from the corner, stepping into the weak light, and I blinked in surprise.

She was ethereal—otherworldly beautiful in a way that seemed impossible in this rotting hell. Platinum blonde hair, so pale it was almost white, fell in tangled waves past her shoulders like spun moonlight. Her face belonged in a stained glass window—delicate features carved from porcelain, all sharp cheekbones and hollow cheeks that spoke of too many missed meals. But it was her eyes that stopped my breath. Sapphire blue, so vivid they seemed to glow against her translucent skin, wide with the kind of terror that never fully left. She couldn't have been more than five-foot-two. Her frame was so thin I could trace every bone beneath paper-white skin—collarbones jutting like bird wings. The dress she wore hung like a burial shroud, swallowing her tiny form entirely.

She hovered near the wall, one trembling hand pressed against the rotting wood like it was the only thing keeping her upright. When she moved toward me, it was with tiny, hesitant steps—each one a negotiation with terror, ready to bolt at the first loud sound.

"W-Where am I?" My throat felt like sandpaper, the words mumbled through my partially sewn lips.

Her eyes fixated on my mouth, horror flickering across her features before she composed herself. She took another hesitant step forward, then froze when I flinched.

"I-I am Callista. A-And you a-are?" Her voice was barely a whisper, so soft I had to strain to hear it. She stuttered over her own name like she wasn't sure she deserved to claim it. Her fingers—long, skeletal, with blue veins mapping her translucent skin—twisted frantically in the hem of her dress. "I am to provide services for the men residing here."

“O-Oakley.” I didn't like the way she said provide services. I slurred through the stitches, careful not to move my lips too much, "Where is here?"

"Divine Diligence." The words fell from her lips like a death sentence.

I tried to sit up again, more slowly this time. Pain shot through my skull, but I managed to prop myself against the wall. The effort left me dizzy and nauseous, my vision swimming with black spots. The room tilted dangerously before settling into focus.

Callista darted to a small table, returning with a chipped bowl. She knelt beside me, her movements quick and nervous, like a bird ready to take flight at the slightest threat. She held up a damp rag. "M-May I?"

I nodded weakly, and she began dabbing at my temple with surprising gentleness. The water was cold, but her touch was careful, avoiding the worst of my injuries.

"Who are you?" I asked, studying her face, each word sending fresh pain through my stitches. Up close, I could see the fine network of scars at her hairline, disappearing beneath blonde strands. "Why are you helping me?"

Her sapphire eyes darted to the door before meeting mine again, terror flickering across her features like candlelight. "I-I told you. I am Callista."

"That's not what I meant."

Her hands trembled like autumn leaves. "I was b-born here. This is... all I know." The admission seemed to physically pain her, shoulders hunching as if expecting a blow. "I t-tend to the injured when needed."

A shadow crossed her angelic face. She glanced toward the door, then the window, flinching at every creak of the old cabin. "G-gone." She whispered the word like a forbidden prayer, barely breathing it into existence. "They... they l-left. But I stayed. My s-sister—" She cut herself off with a sharp intake of breath, eyes widening as if she'd said something dangerous. "She p-promised to come back for me someday."

I reached out, wincing at the effort, and touched her wrist. Her skin was cold despite the stuffy air in the cabin. "How long ago was that?"

"Three years, two months, and s-sixteen days." Her answer broke my heart, the way she stuttered through the count like each number was a wound that wouldn't heal.

"You've been counting."

She nodded, resuming her gentle ministrations. "Time is... important to track. It is easy to lose yourself here."

"Why not leave with them?" I asked, trying to understand why anyone would remain in this hellhole willingly. Her hands trembled violently, the porcelain skin of her wrists so thin I could see her pulse racing beneath.

The door crashed open before she could finish, wood cracking against the already battered wall. Callista scrambled back, pressing herself into the corner like she was trying to disappear into the rotting wood itself. Her entire body trembled like a leaf in a hurricane, those sapphire eyes blown wide with pure fear.

Daphne strode in, flanked by four men. She surveyed the room with calculating eyes, her gaze lingering on my partially stitched mouth with sick satisfaction.

"6325 probably knows about the tracker in the ring, Father Sal." Daphne's words sent ice through my veins. "Him and his family are already on their way if I had to take a guess." She spat the word "family" like it was poison on her tongue.

Father Sal—gray-bearded with eyes like flint—fixed his stare on me. "Enough, Daphne. Bring her to me." His voice carried the authority of someone unused to being questioned.

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