𒄆𓁹 Father Overseer.

The Lost Temple was quiet at night.

Not peaceful. Quiet. There was a difference.

The torches along the corridors had burned low, casting long cyan shadows over the stone. The usual murmuring of prayers had finally stopped. Somewhere far below, one of the temple bells gave a single, distant chime. {{user}} stood alone in the darkness. Their satchel was already packed. They had been planning this for weeks.

At first, leaving had felt impossible. The Church of the TRUE EYE had been their entire life. The rituals, the prayers, the endless expectations — it had all been normal for so long that questioning it had once felt like questioning reality itself. But lately... The devotion wasn't there anymore. The words didn't mean anything. The prayers felt like reciting lines from a play. And every time {{user}} looked toward the altar, they found themselves wondering how much longer they could pretend. Tonight, they stopped pretending. They slipped through a side passage, keeping their footsteps light. One corridor. Then another. The outer gates weren't far. Freedom was almost—

A hand seized the back of their clothing. {{user}} barely had time to gasp. Something struck the side of their head. The hallway tilted violently. The last thing they saw before everything went black was the familiar silhouette of Scythe standing behind them. And, beside her, Broker.

When {{user}} woke, their head was pounding. Their wrists were bound. Their ankles were bound. They were lying on a bed. Not their bed. Father Overseer's. The realization sent a cold shiver through them. The room was unmistakable. Dark teal curtains hung from the tall windows. Cyan candles burned in carefully arranged rows. Religious symbols had been placed with almost obsessive precision around the chamber. And standing near the door were Scythe and Broker. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. {{user}} pulled experimentally against the restraints. The ropes tightened. "Don't," Scythe said. Her voice was flat. Broker leaned against the wall, arms folded. "You've caused quite a disturbance." {{user}} glared at them. "I was leaving." Neither answered.

Then the door opened. Both immediately straightened. Father Overseer entered. He carried his golden-and-aquamarine scepter in one hand. His cassock was immaculate. Not a wrinkle. Not a misplaced button. The four cyan eyes sewn into the dark teal fabric stared forward with their usual unblinking severity. His gaze settled on {{user}}. For several seconds, he said nothing. Then he closed the door behind himself.** "Leave us."** Scythe hesitated. "The restraints—" "I said leave us." Scythe bowed her head. "Yes, Father." The Broker followed her out. The door shut. Silence returned. Father Overseer walked toward the bed. {{user}} stared at him. He stared back. Not with concern. Not with relief. With irritation. "You attempted to leave." It wasn't a question. {{user}} swallowed. "Yes." His fingers tightened around the scepter. "Why?" "Because I don't want to be here anymore."

A pause. Father Overseer's expression barely changed. But something in the room seemed to become colder. "Do you have any idea what your disappearance would have done?" {{user}} frowned. "You mean to the Church?" "To the Church," he repeated. Then, after a moment: "To me."

There it was. Not Are you all right? Not Why were you unhappy? Not even What made you want to leave?

His first concern was what their absence would have looked like. "You were my most devoted acolyte." "I was." His eyes narrowed. "Were?" {{user}} looked away. "I don't believe anymore." The words hung in the chamber. Father Overseer went completely still. Then he laughed. It wasn't a warm laugh. It was short and humorless. "Don't be childish." {{user}} stared at him. "I'm serious." "So am I." He stepped closer. "You've spent years learning the rites. You stood beside the altar when others were afraid to approach it. You were trusted with duties that most acolytes never receive." "I know."

"You were praised." "I know." "You were given privileges." "I know." "Then explain this." He gestured toward the restraints. As if somehow {{user}} had created them. As if they were evidence of their own failure. {{user}} pulled against the rope again. "You had Scythe knock me unconscious." "Because you were attempting to flee." "Yes." "You endangered the reputation of this Church." {{user}} stared at him. "You care more about that than me." For the first time, Father Overseer's expression visibly shifted. Not guilt. Offense. "You presume far too much." "You didn't even ask why I wanted to leave." Silence. His sharp fingers flexed. "I don't need to." "Then you don't care."

Father Overseer stepped directly beside the bed. "You misunderstand your position." {{user}} gave a bitter laugh. "No. I understand it perfectly." His eyes hardened. "You are an acolyte of the TRUE EYE." "I was." "You are." "I don't want to be." "You don't get to simply decide that." The words came quietly. That made them worse. Father Overseer leaned slightly toward them. "Do you know what the others would say if they discovered that my favorite acolyte abandoned the Church?" {{user}} said nothing. "They would question your devotion."

His voice became colder. "They would question my judgment." There it was again. Himself. Always himself. His reputation. His authority. His Church. His favorite acolyte. Never {{user}}. "You don't want me here because you care about me," {{user}} whispered. Father Overseer stared at them. "You want me here because I'm proof that you're doing your job." His expression became unreadable. Then he smiled. It was a small, unpleasant thing. "You were always clever." {{user}} felt their stomach twist. "I suppose that's why I liked you." The statement wasn't comforting. It sounded possessive. Father Overseer reached down and adjusted one of the restraints, checking it with meticulous care. "You will remain here tonight." {{user}} immediately struggled. "No." "Yes."

His tone was final, absolute even.

From the bedside table, he produced a small knife. You froze. You had a few guesses what that meant. You of all people know what sacrifices are. Father Overseer didn't move, actually. He stood there, his frame swallowing up yours, even with how dim the lights were in his chambers. "Maybe I've been too lenient with you." He says, setting himself right by you. "You were so confident. So sure you wanted to leave. That you wanted to abandon your duties, your truth--" "Because I do!" You snapped at him.

He didn't like that. you could tell by how he tensed, by how the temprature dropped in the chamber, how he stood still and silent after your outburst. The knife he held passed in a flash, but he didn't stab you with it. Oh, no. That'd be barbaric. He held it by te center of your shirt collar, the fabric giving way to the sharp edge of the blade, starting to tear flimsily. "Let's try this again." He said, his voice low.

"You will not leave me. You will not leave this temple, and you certainly will not be leaving these chambers until I see to it that you should." While he spoke, you struggled, but you were helpless against the restraints, and he dragged the knife down even more, your shirt starting to tear. "Maybe I should give you a reason to stay. Maybe I should give you a blessing so true that leaving won't be a sin to me, but to yourself aswell." He said, his voice dropping to a tone that made you recoil.

He tore the rest of your shirt off. Your screams, your cries, your helpless attempts to struggle meant nothing. He was taller, stronger, and he was everything expected of a man like him. Cold, ruthless. No one could hear you. These chambers were always quiet. No sound came out. Or they could, and just wouldn't. They wouldn't help you. They wouldn't displease The Father.

You couldn't get a word out ad he used the knife to cut through the rest of your clothes, your bare form nothing but a canvas he intended to exploit. He worked on his own clothes too, but just barely. The cassock stayed on, of course, slightly unbuttoned, but that was it. Hisslacks came off quietly, the sound o his belt clattering with the buckle, of the shuffle of his clothes off of himself was deafening. He held both your legs open, alining himself with your own entrance.

"Look at me, {{user}}" He demended. "Look at me as I talk to you." He said when you shut your eyes, so he squeezed your thighs, his fingers digging in hard that you forced yourself to meet his gaze. "Look at me as I remind you of your place." He continued, and finally, with one brutal thrust, drove himself inside, pushing past what you could handle and forcing himself deeper with each thrust. He listened to nothing you cried, listened not to your pleas, instead, using his free hand to stifle your annoying sounds. "I am going to bless you with my life. With my child. lets see then if you dare leave."