Chapter 4: The Watcher's Gospel

Chapter 4: The Watcher's Gospel

The silence in his apartment was absolute. For two days after the sacrament, it had been a balm, a holy quietude that soothed the searing venom in his veins. The violent, bloody rite in the alley had worked. He had slain the demon, and the poison receded, leaving behind a profound, humming peace. He had sat in the dark, replaying the moment of deliverance, the righteous weight of the rock in his hand, the final, shuddering stillness of the beast. He was a saint, anointed in the blood of the wicked.

But by the third day, the silence began to curdle. The peace frayed at the edges, and the familiar, agonizing ache started to seep back into his bones. It was a dull throb at first, a faint echo of the old torment, but it was growing stronger with every passing hour.

The venom was returning.

He stared at the blank wall of his gray, anonymous apartment, and the truth struck him with the force of a physical blow. The sacrament wasn't the cure. It was merely the first dose of the true medicine. He had removed the source of the infection, the demon, but the angel herself was still wounded, still suffering from the trauma of her long captivity. Her pain was a beacon, calling to the venom, causing it to fester once more. His work was not finished.

He couldn't see her—not yet. To approach her in her fragile state would be a desecration. But the need to connect, to watch over her, was a physical hunger. He was her guardian now, her silent protector. It was his duty to observe her recovery.

He moved to the small desk in the corner. The only source of light was the sickly, blue-white glow of his monitor as he powered it on. The digital world was a pale imitation of reality, but it was a window. A way to watch without being seen.

He started with the name of the pub. A few clicks led him to their employee page. There were blurry photos, names. And there she was. Seraphina. The name was even more perfect than he’d imagined. It sounded like a hymn. Seraphina. His Seraphina.

Her last name was there, too. A common, simple name that was a pathetic anchor to this mortal world. It took him less than a minute to find her social media profile. It was public. Of course, it was. An angel has nothing to hide. Her light was meant to be shared, even if the swine who followed her couldn't truly appreciate it.

He clicked, and her life filled his screen. It was an assault of color and light. A curated gallery of her soul. He began his holy study, his fingers scrolling with a feverish intensity. This was her gospel, and he was its sole true interpreter.

The first photo he focused on made the venom spike. It was her and the demon, Leo, standing on a sun-drenched beach. The demon's arm was wrapped around her waist, his smile wide and predatory. Seraphina was smiling too, but Elias saw through the facade. He magnified the image, staring into her eyes. He saw it. The subtle tension in her jaw. The slight, almost imperceptible distance in her gaze. She was a captive, performing for her jailer. The sun wasn't warming her; it was interrogating her, pinning her in its glare. This photo wasn't a memory of a happy vacation; it was evidence, an artifact of her long suffering.

He scrolled down, through an entire history of her imprisonment. Every photo with the demon was another verse in this tragic epic. Here they were at a party, surrounded by laughing, oblivious fools who smiled for the camera while the angel in their midst was slowly dying. Here they were at a formal dinner, the demon in a suit, looking respectable. The most dangerous evil, Elias knew, was the kind that wore a handsome mask.

He was building a new reality, a gospel according to Elias. Every post, every picture, was recontextualized through the lens of his righteous act. He was not a murderer. He was a liberator. The alley wasn't a crime scene; it was a site of emancipation.

Then he reached the most recent posts. The ones from the last two days.

The profile picture had changed. It was now a simple black square. A sign of mourning.

Her latest post was just text, written twelve hours ago.

“I don’t have the words. Nothing makes sense. The world is so quiet and empty without you. I keep expecting you to walk through the door. I miss you so much it hurts to breathe. I love you, Leo.”

Elias read the words over and over, his heart pounding with a terrible, ecstatic understanding. The blind masses, the fools who commented with their pathetic condolences, would see this as a lover's grief. They would see the name ‘Leo’ and think she was mourning the demon.

But Elias knew the truth. He was the only one who could decode her message.

“Nothing makes sense.” Of course it didn't. Her reality had been shattered. The chains she’d grown so accustomed to were suddenly gone. Freedom was disorienting.

“The world is so quiet and empty without you.” She was talking about the noise of her captivity. The demon’s constant presence, his profane laughter, his suffocating grip. That oppressive noise was gone, leaving a vacuum. She was mistaking the silence of freedom for emptiness.

“I keep expecting you to walk through the door.” This was the clearest sign of her trauma. The lingering fear of her captor's return. A classic symptom. She was still trapped in the prison of her mind.

And the final line… “I love you, Leo.” It was a tragic, heartbreaking cry. The words of a victim so thoroughly broken they profess love for their abuser. A final, desperate echo of the brainwashing she had endured. It wasn't a declaration of love; it was a symptom of a deep, psychic wound.

Below the post, comments from her friends flooded the page.

“Oh, Sera, I’m so sorry for your loss.” “Leo was such an amazing guy. We’re all heartbroken.” “Thinking of you. If you need anything at all, we’re here.”

Fools. Vipers. They were mourning the demon. They were trying to comfort her by reinforcing her delusion, by praising her tormentor. Their words were poison, not medicine. They were trying to drag her back into the lie he had sacrificed so much to destroy.

The venom, which had been a dull ache, now roared through him, hot and demanding. The digital vigil was no longer enough. Watching from the shadows was no longer enough. Her friends were a plague, whispering lies in her ear. They were contaminating the pure, silent space he had created for her.

He was the only one who knew what she had truly endured. He was the only one who could offer her the real comfort, the true salvation. The gospel was clear. She wasn't grieving the loss of a lover. She was suffering from the trauma of surviving an attack—the long, slow attack of her relationship with the demon Leo. The bloody events in the alley were just the chaotic end she couldn't yet process.

He had to intervene. Personally.

He closed the laptop, plunging the room back into darkness. The digital gospel was written. The evidence was compiled. He had seen her cry for help, hidden in plain sight.

It was time to reveal himself. Not as the stranger from the alley, but as her savior. He would go to her, explain the truth of the sacrament, and begin the real work of healing his wounded angel. He would purify her of the demon’s lingering taint and teach her how to live in the freedom he had given her.