Chapter Text
The 1950s. It was late, far past the hour when the church should have been empty. In a place like the N109 Zone, a lawless, neon-lit wasteland run by syndicates and shadows, it was already a miracle and a surprise that a sacred sanctuary like this cathedral even existed at all. It stood as a silent, decaying relic of holiness surrounded by vice. Tonight, you had been left behind to tend to the chapel, a quiet duty entrusted to you as a novice nun: extinguishing candles, locking doors, and keeping vigil in the silence. The restless city outside hummed with violence, but inside the church, the air was heavy with old incense and desperate prayer. Only candlelight illuminated the nave, casting long shadows against stone walls and sacred statues as you carried a candelabra in one hand, your footsteps soft and meant to be unseen.
Then you noticed the blood. At first, you thought it was spilled candle drippings on the cold floor, but the dark stain stretched farther than wax ever could. It was a trail. Fresh. Thick, iron-scented, and visceral. It was a trail leading deeper into the church. Your breath caught as the rumors you had heard about the very zone you lived in flashed through your mind, whispers of syndicates, organized crime, and men who ruled the streets through ruthless butcheries.
Those stories had always felt distant, like tales meant to frighten children and keep women indoors after dark. You had never seen such men, and you never imagined one would cross the threshold of a holy place, bringing the filth of the N109 Zone into your sanctuary.
Until you followed the trail. In the dim glow of the candles, you found him. The stranger was slumped against one of the pillars, his coat dark and his sleeve soaked through with blood from a gunshot wound in his arm. His presence was wrong in every sense too sharp, too dangerous, and too alive for a place built on sacrifice and purity.
He was not a man of faith; he did not kneel, and he did not pray. He had entered the church not for salvation, but for shelter. Your gasp echoed louder than you intended, and immediately, instinct overtook reason. Years of training and obedience were instantly ignored as your mind screamed at you to get away, leave no witnesses, and survive.
The stranger’s eyes locked on you as he rose slightly, a gun in his hand. The cold steel of the barrel caught the weak candlelight, aimed directly at your chest. Your body reacted before thought, and you fell to the floor, your face pressed against the cold stone. Your hands clasped together, fingers trembling violently as you prayed under your breath, whispering, “Please… don’t…”
The candelabra slipped slightly from your grasp, the candlelight flickering wildly and painting both of you in sharp, trembling shadows. Every instinct told you he could kill you in an instant, yet he did not. His eyes studied you, not with anger or cruelty, but with cold, terrifying calculation.
He lowered the gun slowly, but the psychological weight of it remained pressed against your throat. He never broke eye contact. In that suspended moment, the church became an arena: a novice nun in terror, a dangerous man in absolute control, and the candlelight casting both of you as living silhouettes between life and death. You remained on the floor, praying and frozen in terror, yet you noticed the way his movements betrayed a strict, predatory code; he did not waste bullets on those who posed no threat.
Perhaps, in some unspoken, ironic way, he respected the purity of the cloth you wore, or perhaps he merely found amusement in how easily it could be stained. This was the first time you had seen evil not as a story, but as a man, breathing, bleeding, and intensely human. And the man realized, in that moment, that the safest sanctuary he had run to was now the most dangerous place of all because you had seen him. Nothing, neither prayer nor blood, would ever be the same after that night.
The cathedral felt colder now, the silence stretching tight as the gravity of your impending decision settled into the stone floor. Your feet had begun to move backward before you even decided they should. Each step away from him felt heavier than the last, like the air itself was resisting your retreat, while the blood on the stone floor stretched between you both as a dark reminder that this wasn't a dream.
“You should leave,” the man said quietly. His voice didn’t chase you or beg. It simply existed, calm and certain, as if your departure was already a concluded outcome.
Your grip tightened around the candelabra as you whispered, “I need to call the authorities.” That was the correct answer. That was what you were taught, and what good people did.
You took another step back, and then another, until the massive wooden doors of the cathedral loomed behind you, slightly ajar from your earlier rounds. Cold air from the dark streets of the N109 Zone slipped through the gap, carrying the distant hum of a city that never cared for what happened inside sacred places. He hadn’t moved from his spot beneath the pillar, the blood staining his sleeve even darker now.
One hand remained pressed against the wound while the other rested loosely beside the gun. His posture was relaxed in a way that made it more terrifying like even injured, he was still the undisputed apex predator in the room. He was just watching you, not pleading and not afraid. Just waiting to see if the church had truly managed to scrub away your human instincts.
You reached the doors until half your body was already outside, your hand hovering near the edge of the wood. Freedom was right there, air that didn’t smell like incense and iron, a world where this wasn't your problem anymore. All you had to do was step out and let someone else handle this criminal, this syndicate man, this threat.
The man tilted his head slightly, a faint, mocking smirk curving his lips as if he already knew the darkness hiding beneath your vows. “Go on,” he murmured, his gravelly voice scraping against your nerves. “Call them.”
That should have been easy. You should have left. In fact, you did leave. The door creaked as you pushed it fully open and stepped into the corridor beyond, the cold night air hitting your face. For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then, you stopped walking. Your hand slowly lowered from the doorframe as the cathedral behind you felt unbearably still, as if it were holding its breath. He had already stopped watching the door, assuming you were gone. Of course you left; that’s what people like you did, and that’s what he expected. A quiet, bitter certainty flickered in his expression as he leaned his head back against the pillar again, his eyes half-lidded as he exhaled softly, “…Right.”
He sounded almost amused, yet almost disappointed that another holy creature had proven to be entirely predictable.
But then, the sound of footsteps returned, slow, hesitant, walking back into the cathedral.
The stranger opened his eyes again to find you standing at the threshold, breathing unevenly and holding a clean cloth stolen from the church supply cabinet. Your fingers tightened around it like it was heavier than stone. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the echo of your footsteps as you walked back into the nave, step by step, past the doors and past the point of no return. He watched you approach with an unreadable expression, but something in his eyes shifted a sharper, darker calculation breaking for a fraction of a second. You stopped right in front of him, close enough to see the exhaustion underlying his control and the severe blood loss he was hiding behind his stillness.
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Your hands trembled violently as you crouched down, gently pressing the clean cloth from the supply cabinet directly against his arm. It immediately began blooming with a deep, dark crimson where it met the wound, warm and thick against your fingers.
“This isn't enough,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly as you looked from the soaked fabric to his pale face. The cloth was a temporary shield, nothing more. “The bleeding isn’t stopping. You can’t stay here on the floor. I need you to stand up.”
He tilted his head back against the stone pillar, a faint, mocking shadow of a smile touching his lips despite the sweat slicking his brow. “Stand? Sister, I think I’ll take my chances right here. The view is nice.”
“Please,” you said, your tone sharpening with a desperate, quiet urgency. You were practically begging now, your hands hovering near his uninjured shoulder. “Please, don't be stubborn. I cannot treat a gunshot wound on a cold floor in the middle of the nave. There is a small infirmary past the sacristy. You have to try. If you lose any more blood, you won't survive the night. I’m a nurse, and you’re going to die if I don’t do something.”
He studied your face, searching for a trap, his natural paranoia fighting against the sheer exhaustion pulling at his limbs. For a long, tense moment, he didn't move. Then, with a low, defeated exhale that sounded like a curse, he relented.
“Fine,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing into a dangerous slit. “But if you drop me, I’m taking the church down with me.”
You didn't waste time arguing. Bracing yourself, you reached down and carefully draped his uninjured arm over your shoulders. The moment his weight shifted onto you, your breath hitched. He was massive compared to your small frame, a solid wall of heavy muscle and broad shoulders made even heavier by the dead weight of his injury. Your knees buckled slightly, but you gritted your teeth, anchoring your feet against the smooth stone.
Slowly, agonizingly, you rose together. He grunted, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle leaped in his cheek, his other hand firmly clamping the bloody cloth against his wounded arm.
Together, you began the long, grueling walk out of the main sanctuary. You moved down the side aisle, past the rows of empty wooden pews where the faithful usually sat for sermons. Now, those same pews cast long, skeletal shadows across your path, like ribs of a dying beast. The only sound was the dragging of his heavy leather shoes and the soft, hurried friction of your heavy white novice habit against the floor. As you walked, his soaked sleeve pressed fully against your torso.
The dark, warm blood quickly bled through the stark white cloth of your vestments, leaving a horrific, jagged crimson stain right across your chest and shoulder. It looked like a macabre slash across your purity. You noticed it, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, but you didn't let go. An awkward, heavy silence hung between you; he was acutely aware of your fragile, clean warmth beneath his arm, and you were terrifyingly aware of the raw, dangerous power of the bleeding man you were keeping upright.
By the time you reached the church infirmary, your shoulders were aching and your breath came in short, ragged gasps. The room was small and modest, smelling strongly of old cedar, lavender, and liniment. You guided him straight to the narrow cot in the center of the room, easing him down until he sat heavily on the edge of the mattress.
“Take off your coat and shirt,” you commanded, turning your back to him immediately to head toward the glass supply cabinets.
Behind you, there was a beat of silence, followed by a low, amused, gravelly tone that sent a strange shiver down your spine.
“Take off my clothes? My, my. Is this standard practice for a woman of the cloth, or am I just special? I don’t even know your name, sister.” It was a joke, but his tone remained sharp, testing your limits, his defensive walls firmly in place.
You spun around, your face flushing a deep red against the blood-stained white of your veil. “Just do it!” you cried out. It was a shout, but because you were a nun in training, it came out entirely soft, a gentle explosion of frustration that lacked any real malice.
He raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. He wondered what it would take to truly make you angry, to see the fire behind the holy vows. It interested him, the thought of corrupting something so pristine. But as a wave of dizziness washed over him, he realized now was not the right time to test that hypothesis.
He needed to survive first. And for you, the stakes were just as high; you knew that if he died under your care, his syndicate men would likely hunt down whoever failed him. You couldn't let him die. For his sake, and for your own survival. With a grunt of pain, he used his good hand to shrug off his heavy dark coat, letting it pool onto the floor, before unbuttoning his blood-soaked shirt to expose his powerful torso and the mangled flesh of his upper arm.
You returned to his side, carrying a stainless steel kidney dish. Inside it, a pair of long metal forceps, a curved surgical needle threaded with black silk, and a small glass vial clinked together. Next to the dish, you carried a dark glass bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a glass syringe. He looked down at the crescent-shaped steel dish, then up at you.
“Are you seriously planning to use that on me? Looks like something you'd use to finish the job.”
You looked down at him, your gaze forcing itself to remain cool and steady despite the visual of his bare, scarred chest. “I am not like that. And I am not just a nun. I am a nurse, too. I know exactly what I am doing.”
You uncorked the dark bottle, filling the air with a sharp, medicinal scent. “If you don't trust me, then feel free to leave. But I am not letting a patient die under this roof. You can kill me later if you think I put you in danger, or if you think I did something to hurt you. But right now? You are going to let me do my job.”
He stared at you, his jaw tightening. His deep-seated trust issues screamed at him to pull away, but the sheer authority in your quiet voice kept him anchored. He stayed quiet, his muscles rigid with suspicion, watching your every move like a hawk.
“This will sting,” you warned quietly.
Using your dressing forceps, you soaked a thick cotton pad in the hydrogen peroxide and pressed it directly onto the ragged gunshot wound. Instantly, the chemical reacted with his blood. The wound began to fizz and foam violently, a thick white froth bubbling up from the torn flesh, lifting the dirt and gunpowder residue away. He hissed violently through his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edges of the cot so hard the wood creaked, but he refused to cry out.
“The bullet is still inside,” you murmured, your tone shifting entirely into professional nurse mode as you wiped away the foam, revealing the deep, dark puncture in his muscle. “It didn't go through. If I don't take it out now, the infection will kill you by morning.”
You picked up the glass syringe and the small glass vial. “I am going to inject Procaine around the wound. It’s a local numbing agent. It will take a few minutes to dull the pain, but I need to go deep to find the slug.”
He watched the needle coldly. “Just do it. I've had worse.”
You precisely injected the Procaine into the tissues surrounding the bullet hole. He flinched slightly at the initial prick, but within a couple of minutes, the freezing effect of the anesthetic began to take hold, deadening the sharpest edges of his agony.
“Hold still,” you commanded softly, picking up the long, sterile bullet forceps. The metal gleamed coldly under the candlelight.
With his eyes locked onto your face, analyzing you for any sign of betrayal, he forced his body to remain completely rigid. You leaned in close, your focus absolute. The scent of your clean soap mixed with the iron of his blood and the chemical tang of the anesthetic. Carefully, you dipped the long, slender tips of the forceps deep into the bloody opening. Even with the Procaine, he let out a sharp, ragged breath, his chest heaving as the metal instrument pried into the deeper, un-numbed layers of the torn muscle. You worked by feel, your fingers steady despite the trembling of your heart. Clink. The metal tips grazed against something hard and solid deep within the tissue.
“I have it,” you whispered, your brow furrowing in concentration. Slowly, meticulously, you clamped the forceps around the lead slug. With a final, firm pull, you extracted the flattened bullet from his arm. Clink. You dropped the bloody piece of lead into the stainless steel kidney dish.
Immediately, a fresh stream of dark blood welled up from the empty cavity. You didn't hesitate. You grabbed a fresh roll of gauze, packing the wound tightly to apply pressure, letting the bleeding slow down before you proceeded to the final step. Picking up the needle holder from the dish, you gripped the curved surgical needle. The black silk thread hung neatly from the eyelet.
“The Procaine should still be working on the surface,” you said softly, finally looking up to meet his intense stare, your breathing just as uneven as his. “But you will still feel the tugging. I need to sew the muscle and skin closed, or you will bleed out through the night.”
“Do it,” he murmured, his voice rough, eyes still boring into yours with an intensity that felt entirely inappropriate for an infirmary.
You leaned back in, your hands moving with seamless, efficient grace. You pierced the edge of the torn skin, pushing the curved needle through the flesh and pulling the black silk thread taut. You worked methodically, tying neat, tight surgical knots to bring the ragged edges of the gunshot wound back together. He watched you intently, his muscles tense, feeling the bizarre, heavy pulling sensation of the thread stitching him back into the land of the living.
With a final snip of your surgical scissors, you cut the thread. The wound was neatly closed, a row of precise black stitches holding his flesh together. You quickly applied a clean layer of gauze and wrapped his arm tightly with zinc oxide adhesive plaster.
“It's finished,” you said softly, wiping your hands on a clean cloth. “The bullet is out, and the wound is closed.”
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Sylus let out a slow, heavy breath, leaning his head back against the wall behind the infirmary cot. The freezing effect of the Procaine was still holding the worst of the agony at bay, but his mind was crystal clear. He looked down at his tightly bound arm, then up at you. A dark, genuinely impressed glint sparked in his eyes.
“You're good, sister,” he murmured, his gravelly voice filled with a rare touch of respect. “Better than the sadist underground doctors the syndicate keeps on payroll. Those bastards wouldn't even bother with anesthesia, let alone sterilizing their blades. I feel like I've been granted mercy. Literally.”
You didn't answer right away, your focus already shifting to the aftermath of the chaotic surgery. You began gathering the bloody tools from the kidney dish, but as you moved under the light of the single candle, Sylus’ eyes narrowed. The bright, stark white fabric of your novice habit was ruined, splattered with thick, jagged stains of his dark crimson blood right across your chest and shoulder.
“You should change out of that,” Sylus noted, tilting his head toward your torso. His gaze lingered on your chest a second too long. “It’s bloody. If anyone walks in here and sees you looking like you just butchered a man, they might actually suspect the sweet little nun killed someone.”
You paused, your hands tightening around the tray. Your cheeks flushed under his unblinking stare. “Do not jest,” you said quietly, your gentle voice laced with a tremor of exhaustion. “I am going to change. I just need to prepare everything first.”
In the corner of the small infirmary stood a tall, foldable wooden privacy screen. Since your spare vestments and nursing supplies were kept in the cabinets here, you had no choice but to change in the same room as him. You assumed, with the innocent, sheltered mindset of your vows, that he would respect your privacy. He is a patient, heavily injured, and a guest in God's house, you reasoned. He wouldn’t look.
You were completely, dangerously wrong. Sylus was a predator, and his injuries didn't make him blind or helpless. The moment you stepped behind the foldable panel, the rustle of fabric filled the quiet room. Driven by a dark, possessive curiosity to see the woman behind the holy cloth to see exactly what he was going to ruin. Sylus silently stood up from the cot. His steps were completely noiseless, like a ghost navigating the dark, as he drifted over to the edge of the screen, slipping into the shadows to look through the narrow gap between the wooden panels.
Because you wore a white novice habit designed for the tropical climate and intensive nursing work, you wore no bra underneath. The heavy, rigid linen guimpe you had just unpinned had acted as your only support. Now, as you shed the blood-stained outer layer, you stood in the dim, warm candlelight wearing nothing but your loose, full-length white cotton slip.
Sylus caught his breath, his red eyes darkening with a heavy, predatory hunger. You picked up a clean, damp cloth and began wiping his blood off your bare skin, tilting your chin up as you cleaned your collarbones. The movement pulled the thin, semi-translucent fabric of the slip taut, completely exposing the soft, natural curves of your bare breasts under the flickering light, your nipples dark silhouettes against the cloth. There was a raw, untouched purity to your body completely unmarred by the world, yet breathtakingly beautiful. Sylus didn't move. He didn't make a sound to startle you. He just drank in the sight of his savior's bare skin, his eyes tracking every drop of water that rolled down your neck, memorizing the shape of your body. He was already defiling you in his mind, drawing a blueprint of the sins he would commit with you later.
The moment you reached for your fresh white habit to pull it over your head, Sylus silently turned on his heel. He navigated back to the cot, easing himself down onto the mattress and draping his arms casually just as you stepped out from behind the screen, completely oblivious to the fact that your innocence had already been stripped away in his eyes.
“How are you feeling now?” you asked softly, your face clean and your new white habit perfectly pinned. You walked over, carrying a wooden laundry basin. Inside it, you placed your ruined habit and his blood-soaked shirt. On top of the pile, you had neatly laid out a fresh set of clothes.
“You can borrow these. It's a white tunic shirt belonging to Father Thomas, and here is a thick robe to cover yourself. Follow me. I cannot leave you here in the morning, and we need to wash these clothes before the blood sets.” You handed him the garments, your eyes carefully avoiding his bare torso.
Together, you moved silently down the hidden stone steps into the cavernous underground cistern. The air down here was thick, damp, and freezing, the sound of the rushing natural spring echoing off the ancient arches like dark whispers.
“You can use this towel to clean the rest of your body,” you said, handing him a rough cloth as you reached the edge of the deep rock pool. “I will be on the other side washing the clothes. Do not get your bandage wet.”
“Understood, sister,” Sylus murmured, a slow, wicked smirk curving his lips.
You turned your back to him, kneeling by the water's edge to submerge the blood-stained vestments into the dark pool. Behind you, the rustle of fabric signaled him removing the heavy robe. But what you didn't realize was that when Sylus had changed into the robe back in the infirmary, he had completely discarded his ruined, blood-soaked trousers too.
Hearing a heavy splash, you instinctively glanced back to check if he had accidentally submerged his wounded arm.
You completely froze, the air violently leaving your lungs.
Sylus was standing at the edge of the water, entirely naked. The candlelight caught the powerful, scarred lines of his back and thighs, but what made your breath hitch, your mind going entirely blank with a mixture of terror and sin, was his heavy, unmistakable endowment. The sheer, thick length and raw masculinity of his frame was completely exposed, heavy and semi-flaccid but imposing nonetheless. It was a stark, terrifying contrast to everything you had ever known in your sheltered, virginal life. Your face exploded into a burning, deep crimson that felt like fever. You gasped, instantly tearing your eyes away and staring violently down at the laundry basin, your hands trembling so hard you accidentally splashed the freezing water onto your own face. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You had just witnessed a mortal sin, and your soul felt scorched.
Sylus saw your exact reaction. A low, thoroughly amused, gravelly chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, echoing dangerously against the stone walls of the cistern. He carefully lowered his lower half into the freezing spring water, keeping his stitched upper arm high and dry on the stone ledge. He dipped the towel into the water, using his one good hand to wipe the sweat from his chest and stomach, his eyes never leaving your shaking form.
Seeing your frantic, flushed silence as you aggressively scrubbed his blood out of your vestments, his cocky, dangerous edge returned tenfold. He didn't just want to tease you anymore; he wanted to see how far he could push your holy boundaries before you snapped.
“Don't tell me,” Sylus drawled, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet purr that seemed to coat the damp air of the cistern. He watched your burning ears, the way your neck flushed red. “Don't tell me you've never seen a man's cock before, sister?”
You practically choked on your own breath, your knuckles turning white against the wet fabric. For a nun in a white habit, a literal symbol of untouched purity, the question was a shameless, blasphemous violation.
“Please be quiet!” you whispered fiercely, your voice still painfully soft and restrained even when you were trying to fight back. You kept your head down, your eyes glued to the pinkish suds of the laundry, trying to drown out the image of his bare, powerful body that was now permanently burned into your mind.
Sylus only smirked deeper, dragging the wet towel slowly over his collarbone. Before you could process his movement, his good hand shot out of the water. His wet, freezing fingers wrapped tightly around your small wrist.
With one brutal, deliberate tug, he pulled you flush against the stone ledge of the pool.
You gasped, your balance breaking as your knees hit the hard rock. You were forced to look down at him. Your clean, fresh white habit was now soaking wet at the hem, clinging to your skin from the splash. Sylus tilted his chin up, his red eyes burning through the dim candlelight, looking at you not as a patient looks at a nurse, but as a king looks at his captured prize.
“Look at me, sister,” Sylus commanded, his voice dropping into something heavy, absolute, and dark. The grip on your wrist was an iron shackle. “You saved a monster tonight. Did your God tell you to do that? Because the moment you brought me down here, you let the N109 Zone into your church.”
He leaned in closer, the scent of the cold water, his sweat, and the faint trace of his blood invading your senses. “You can scrub my blood out of that cloth all night, sweetheart. But you’re never getting the stain of me out of your head.”
He let go of your wrist slowly, his fingers dragging lightly down your palm in a promise of what was to come, before he sank back into the shadows of the water, leaving you trembling, ruined, and deeply, terrifically aware that your slow descent into his world had just begun.
"And right, the name's Sylus, sweetie."
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