The town did not look like a place capable of cruelty.
Stone houses clustered close together, roofs patched with mismatched tiles, banners of old festivals still hanging limp between posts. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. The air smelled of bread and damp earth. It was the kind of place travelers described as safe.
That was why he stayed.
He arrived at dusk, weary but alert, senses brushing the edges of the town like fingertips against glass. There was no distortion here—no pressure in the air, no wrongness tugging at his instincts. If one of the Sins was near, it hid itself well.
The guards at the gate hesitated when they saw him.
Not because of a weapon. He carried none openly.
It was the way he stood.
Balanced. Still. Watching.
"You traveling alone?" one of them asked.
"Yes."
The answer came easily. Too easily.
The guards exchanged a glance, then stepped aside. "You can stay the night. We don't turn people away."
That should have been the first warning.
Inside, the town welcomed him with cautious warmth. A woman offered soup. A man offered a place to sit near the fire. Someone asked his name.
He gave them only what they needed.
The night passed quietly. No screams. No monsters. Just murmured conversations and the soft crackle of wood burning low.
In the morning, he helped.
Not because they asked—but because that was what he did.
He repaired a collapsed fence with steady hands. Helped lift a wagon stuck in the mud. Showed a boy how to balance a blade properly—not how to kill, just how to hold it without fear. Each act was small, forgettable on its own.
Together, they made him useful.
Gratitude followed. Smiles. Laughter. The way people relaxed around him once they decided he belonged.
That was when the questions started.
"Where'd you learn to move like that?"
"You don't look like a mercenary."
"You don't look like a farmer either."
He answered carefully. Truth without detail. Detail without explanation.
They accepted it.
Too easily.
By the third day, he noticed the change.
Not hostility. Not yet.
Distance.
Conversations stopped when he approached. Eyes lingered longer than before. He felt it most when he wasn't looking—like a pressure at his back, the awareness of being measured.
At night, he sensed movement near where he slept.
Not an attack.
Observation.
On the fourth day, the mayor invited him to speak.
The building was modest, built of stone older than the rest of the town. Inside, several people waited—faces familiar now. The woman who had fed him. The guard who let him in. A merchant whose wagon he'd fixed.
All of them smiling.
"We're grateful," the mayor said. "For everything you've done."
"You didn't have to," he replied.
"That's exactly why we're concerned."
The words were gentle. Careful.
Concern always was.
"You're… capable," the mayor continued. "More than most. And people like that draw trouble."
Silence stretched.
"I'm passing through," he said. "I'll be gone by morning."
A few shoulders relaxed.
"That would be best," someone murmured.
Then another voice spoke—quiet, uncertain.
"What if he doesn't?"
The room changed.
Not sharply. Not violently.
Just enough.
"He hasn't caused harm," the woman said. "But he could."
"He killed something before," another added. "You can tell."
Eyes turned toward him.
He did not deny it.
That was mistake number two.
Fear filled the gaps where certainty should have been.
"We can't risk it," the mayor said finally. "We have families."
There it was.
Not hatred.
Calculation.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
He did not reach for power.
Not yet.
"Are you arresting me?" he asked.
"No," the mayor said quickly. "Just… asking you to stay here tonight."
The lie was poor.
He felt it then—metal shifting behind the walls. The scrape of blades being drawn. The shallow breathing of people who had already decided.
He could leave.
He knew that.
He chose not to.
When the first chain wrapped around his wrist, he let it.
When another snapped around his ankle, he did not resist.
Someone cried when they did it. Someone apologized.
"I'm sorry," the woman whispered. "We just can't take chances."
He met her eyes.
"I know."
That was when it broke.
They expected anger. Violence. A monster.
They did not expect understanding.
The chains glowed faintly—inscribed, prepared. They burned against his skin, suppressing something deeper. Clever. They'd planned this longer than they admitted.
"You're dangerous," the mayor said, voice shaking. "Even if you don't mean to be."
"I won't hurt you," he said.
"That's what scares us."
They locked him beneath the hall, in a room meant for storage. Cold stone. No windows. Just a single lantern left burning low.
Footsteps retreated.
Silence returned.
He sat there for a long time.
Not counting seconds. Not thinking of escape.
Thinking of the village he'd left behind.
Thinking of how rest always ended this way.
Above him, the town slept peacefully.
Safe.
Because he was contained.
When dawn came, he felt it before he heard it.
A distortion. Familiar. Hungry.
The Sin had noticed.
And it was coming—for the town.
He stood slowly.
The chains resisted.
He did not break them yet.
Above, bells began to ring.
Panic followed.
Screams.
He closed his eyes.
They had chosen fear over trust.
Now fear had come to claim its due.
And when the doors finally burst open—when they came running, shouting his name—
They would beg.
And he would have to decide whether humanity deserved saving again.